iiUINTBR 


PZ  3 . H919  052  1895a 
Hunter,  William  Wilson, 
1840-1900. 

The  old  missionary 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2016 


https://archive.org/details/oldmissionarynarOOhunt 


Ube  ©lb  fllMsslonaii? 


By  SIR  WILLIAM  W.  falJNTER,  K.C.S.I.,  M.A.,  LL.D. 


HENRY  FROWDE  : 1 895 


O^forb 


HORACE  HART,  PRINTER  TO  THE  UNIVERSITY 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

PAGE 

The  Two  Encampments  -----  5 

CHAPTER  II. 

The  Scholar  and  his  Child  29 


CHAPTER  III. 

The  Parting  of  the  People  45 

CHAPTER  IV. 


The  Going  Down  of  the  Sun 


66 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  TWO  ENCAMPMENTS 

Sunday  passed  rather  languidly  in  the  Lieu- 
tenant-Governor's camp.  The  aide-de-camp  had 
officially  marked  the  claims  of  the  day  by  appearing 
in  his  staff-spurs  at  breakfast,  and  the  judge  read 
service  in  the  mess-tent.  The  small  party  then 
separated,  the  younger  men  to  watch  the  cleaning 
of  their  guns  and  examine  the  scratches  which 
the  dogs  had  got  during  yesterday’s  jackal-hunt, 
the  seniors  to  work  off  the  arrears  of  the  week 
or  to  write  letters  home. 

It  was  only  the  flying  camp  of  the  Lieutenant- 
Governor  of  Bengal,  and  had  little  of  the  elaborate 
equipage  which  attends  a progress  of  the  Vice- 
roy, or  the  prolonged  cold-weather  tours  of  the 


6 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


Lieutenant-Governors  of  the  North-west  and  the 
Punjab.  Half  a dozen  tents  on  either  side  formed 
a short  broad  street  down  the  middle  of  a mango- 
grove,  with  a strip  of  lawn  between  and  a noble 
pipal-tree  closing  in  the  upper  end.  On  the 
right  of  its  towering  masses  of  foliage  stood  the 
Lieutenant-Governor’s  pavilion,  the  British  flag 
twisting  lazily  round  its  pole  in  the  sunshine. 

The  tents  of  the  Secretary  to  Government,  the 
private  secretary,  the  aide-de-camp,  and  the  officer 
commanding  the  escort,  were  ranged  in  military 
line  on  one  side  of  the  lawn.  The  less  regular 
row  facing  them  was  made  up  of  the  tents  of 
our  small  District  staff,  the  judge,  the  magistrate 
and  his  assistant,  the  superintendent  of  police, 
and  the  old  doctor  with  his  melancholy  flute. 
A structure  of  yellow  native  cloth  for  mess  pur- 
poses and  public  receptions  stood  at  the  head  of 
the  little  white  street,  and  was  connected  with  the 
Lieutenant-Governor’s  pavilion  by  a covered  way 
of  canvas  across  the  grass.  A few  clerks,  the 
troopers  of  the  escort,  and  the  servants,  had  their 
humble  pent-roof  encampment  behind  the  pipal- 
tree  on  the  outskirts  of  the  grove. 


THE  TWO  ENCAMPMENTS  7 

After  luncheon  the  party  drew  together  again, 
and  blue  spires  began  to  curl  upwards  from  so- 
ciable cheroots  under  the  tent  door-flaps.  The 
feathered  republic  of  the  grove  also  awakened 
from  its  noonday  silence.  The  harmless  De- 
cember sun  poured  its  floods  of  light  through 
the  foliage,  carpeting  the  lawn  with  patterns  of 
rich  tracery.  Two  crows  became  suddenly  aware 
that  it  was  the  afternoon,  and  fell  to  plotting 
in  harsh  caws  how  to  steal  their  supper.  A joint- 
family  of  minas,  in  their  cold-weather  plumage, 
resumed  their  lovers’  quarrels  where  they  had  left 
off  before  their  siesta,  dashing  from  bough  to 
bough  in  mock  pursuit,  amid  much  chattering 
and  noisy  flirtation.  Squirrels  with  twitching 
tails  and  lizards  with  watchful  glances  ran  up 
and  down  the  trunk  and  lower  arms  of  the  great 
pipal-tree ; a colony  of  little  warblers  fluttered  in 
the  middle  stories ; and  a kite,  wheeling  on 
motionless  wings  above,  kept  a hungry  eye  upon 
all. 

Presently  the  assistant  magistrate,  the  aide-de- 
camp,  and  the  escort  officer  rode  off  with  the 
dogs,  leaving  their  comrade  the  private  secretary 


8 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


to  puzzle  out  the  precedence  of  the  hill  chiefs  who 
were  to  attend  the  Darbar  next  morning.  The 
Secretary  to  Government,  jaded  by  his  day’s 
work,  settled  himself  reposefully  in  a long  cane 
chair,  with  a glass  of  freshly  mixed  lemonade 
and  a volume  of  Browning.  The  judge  came 
forth  from  an  interview  in  the  pavilion  ; and  it 
fell  to  my  duty,  as  magistrate  of  the  District,  to 
attend  the  Lieutenant-Governor  on  his  evening 
ride. 

Our  path  lay  upward,  across  the  dips  and  undu- 
lations amid  which  the  hill  country  breaks  down 
upon  the  plains.  The  scrub  jungle  stretched 
before  us,  until  it  merged  in  the  heavier  forest 
of  the  mountains.  On  our  left  a broken  line  of 
embankments  came  at  intervals  in  sight,  the  re- 
mains of  a road  commenced  as  a relief  work  for 
the  highland  people  during  a famine,  and  given 
up  when  the  scarcity  passed  off.  Its  grass-grown 
sides,  furrowed  by  four  rainy  seasons,  and  the 
unbridged  chasms  left  for  the  water- courses,  were 
eloquent  with  the  silent  reproaches  of  an  unfin- 
ished work.  I was  pleading  its  cause,  and  urging 
its  completion  as  a means  of  opening  up  hill  fairs ; 


THE  TWO  ENCAMPMENTS 


9 


throwing  in  the  hope  of  a coal-mine  on  the  route, 
from  the  argument  of  some  rather  unpromising 
shale  which  I had  picked  up  in  a gully. 

1 Ah ! Ormiston,’  said  the  Lieutenant-Governor, 
with  good-natured  pleasantry,  ‘ so  you  too  have 
joined  the  reformers ! I thought  that  the  work 
of  the  Secretariat  might  have  rendered  you  a safe 
man.  But  I suppose  you  are  now  going  to  make 
up  for  three  years  of  discouraging  criticism  of 
other  men’s  projects  by  starting  plenty  of  your 
own.  Wherever  I go  it  is  the  same.  You  Com- 
petition men  come  to  Bengal  with  your  heads  full 
of  ideas,  and  you  expect  me  to  find  the  money 
to  carry  them  out.  Why  cannot  you  be  content 
with  things  as  you  find  them,  as  we  were  before 
you?  It  is  only  a few  years  since  poor  John 
Company  was  shovelled  underground,  and  already 
his  peaceful  ways  seem  to  belong  to  a remote 
antiquity. 

4 If  I set  down  a man  as  a harmless  sportsman, 
with  his  soul  safely  centred  in  his  guns  and  dogs, 
he  no  sooner  gets  charge  of  a District  than  he 
sends  up  a report  on  the  cattle  disease,  with  a 
draft  Bill  for  preserving  the  village  pastures.  If 


IO 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


he  is  a reading  man,  he  has  a scheme  for  rebuilding 
our  superfine  education  department  on  the  rational 
basis  of  the  indigenous  schools.  If  law  is  his 
fancy,  he  objects  to  the  time-honoured  practice  of 
the  native  magistrates  taking  evidence  in  two  or 
three  cases  at  the  same  time,  or  he  believes  in  the 
possibility  of  reforming  the  Village  Watch.  But 
the  District  Officer  with  a taste  for  public  works  is 
the  most  fatal  of  your  gifted  generation.  One  man 
wants  to  bridge  a river,  another  to  cut  a canal,  a 
third  dreams  of  cheap  tramways.  Your  neighbour 
in  the  next  District  presented  me  yesterday  with 
a complete  scheme  for  improved  lock-ups,  and  you 
yourself  are  manifestly  in  the  early  stage  of  road 
fever.  I do  not  dare  to  take  my  Public  Works 
Secretary  with  me  on  tour,  lest  he  should  be  won 
over  to  your  projects  as  well  as  myself.  But  since 
the  Mutiny,  the  deluge  ! ’ 

It  was  in  the  early  time  of  promise,  soon  after 
India  had  passed  to  the  Crown,  when  the  spirit 
of  improvement  woke  up  from  its  long  lethargy, 
and  each  year  brought  forth  some  great  measure. 
The  Codes  which  stand  as  stately  landmarks  at 
the  commencement  of  Her  Majesty’s  rule  were 


THE  TWO  ENCAMPMENTS 


1 1 


recently  enacted,  and  pledges  that  lay  dormant 
during  three  - quarters  of  a century  had  been 
redeemed  by  the  land-law  defining  the  rights 
of  the  tillers  of  the  soil.  No  one  could  have 
a better  claim  than  Sir  Charles  Fairfax  to  a little 
comic  grumbling  at  the  rapidity  of  the  pace,  for 
no  one  in  the  old  torpid  days  had  been  a stouter 
champion  of  progress.  As  his  talk  ran  up  and 
down  the  gamut  from  grave  to  gay,  we  insensibly 
wound  into  the  hills.  The  scrub  jungle  gave  place 
to  fair-sized  sal-trees  ; the  couple  of  troopers  who 
followed  at  a little  distance  were  no  longer  visi- 
ble, and  only  made  their  presence  known  by  the 
crackling  of  their  horses  through  the  dry  brush- 
wood, or  an  occasional  gleam  of  their  lances  among 
the  foliage.  Suddenly  we  came  upon  a scene 
in  strange  contrast  with  the  secular  thoughts  and 
avocations  of  our  own  day.  The  forest  opened 
out  into  a long  grassy  glade,  in  which  the  Old 
Missionary  was  holding  his  yearly  gathering  of 
the  hillmen  after  the  November  harvest. 

At  the  further  end  of  the  narrow  valley  a banian- 
tree  rose  in  isolated  dignity  over  a ruined  shrine, 
which  it  had  once  climbed  as  a creeper.  The 


12 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


thin  ancient  bricks  were  clamped  together  in  a 
vegetable  grasp  stronger  than  iron,  and  the 
domed  roof  now  formed  the  heart  of  the  mighty 
stem.  The  branches  had  thrown  down  suckers 
to  the  ground,  in  which  many  of  them  had  struck 
and  become  new  sources  of  sap,  so  that  the  mass 
of  foliage  and  timber  was  supported  around  its 
magnificent  circumference  by  concentric  colon- 
nades of  roots.  Two  of  these  pillared  recesses 
were  converted  into  leafy  huts,  their  walls  made 
of  the  branches  of  the  young  sal  jungle  which 
the  hill  people  know  how  to  deftly  interweave. 

Outside  the  larger  of  them  the  Old  Missionary 
sat  bare-headed  on  a raised  bank  of  turf,  with 
a semicircle  of  elderly  hillmen  pleading  some  cause 
before  him.  To  his  right,  half  hidden  among  a 
cloister  of  hanging  roots,  a fair  little  English 
girl  seemed  to  be  explaining  a picture-book  to 
a group  of  brown  children.  Further  off,  on  his 
left,  a crowd  of  hillmen  and  their  wives  squatted 
around  a native  preacher  who  was  haranguing 
with  earnest  gesticulations. 

It  was  one  ot  the  ancient  halting-places  on  the 
western  pilgrim  route,  and  had  a story  of  its  own. 


THE  TWO  ENCAMPMENTS 


13 


About  four  hundred  years  ago  a Rajput  chief  and 
his  wife  rested  here  on  their  way  to  the  holy  city 
on  the  Orissa  shore.  The  chief  was  childless,  and 
having  visited  the  shrines  of  the  Upper  Ganges  in 
vain,  he  was  at  length  wearied  by  the  prayers  of 
his  princess  into  making  the  great  pilgrimage  to 
Jagannath,  from  which  few  devotees  then  returned. 
His  State  lay  near  the  desert  in  the  north-west  of 
India,  eight  months’  march  from  the  holy  city  on 
the  Bay  of  Bengal.  So  he  levied  two  years’  taxes 
from  his  subjects ; and  having  placed  his  territory 
in  charge  of  his  old  Brahman  Minister,  he  set  forth 
with  a train  of  nephews  who  might  have  given 
trouble  in  his  absence,  and  a hundred  of  his  bravest 
swordsmen. 

After  he  and  his  princess,  but  more  particularly 
the  princess,  had  done  everything  that  piety  could 
suggest  at  the  shrines  of  Benares  and  Gaya,  they 
took  the  western  route  through  the  jungle  to  the 
Orissa  coast.  The  chief,  fatigued  with  so  much 
unwonted  religion,  perhaps  chose  this  route  as 
only  one  more  place  of  pilgrimage  lay  upon  it, 
and  his  little  band  of  Rajput  chivalry  made  him 
careless  of  attacks  by  the  forest  tribes.  His  wife 


14 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


no  doubt  learned  with  equal  gladness  that  the 
shrine  on  the  way  was  one  of  those  very  ancient 
retreats  in  which  the  wild  worship  of  the  hillmen 
mingles  with  that  of  the  Brahmans;  shrines  seldom 
visited  by  reason  of  their  remoteness,  and  therefore 
the  more  efficacious  in  granting  the  prayers  of 
their  devotees.  The  sport-loving  chief  hunted  in 
the  forest  with  his  followers  as  they  journeyed 
along.  The  princess  performed  her  devotions 
with  her  Spiritual  Guide  at  every  brook  of  flowing 
water,  and  as  they  crossed  each  successive  ridge 
in  the  hills ; halting  for  a full  day’s  prayer  when- 
ever they  came  upon  a spot  where  two  streams  met. 

They  had  left  behind  them  the  shrine  of  the 
hill-god,  half  temple  half  cave  with  its  weird  rites, 
and  another  month  would  bring  them  to  the  end 
of  their  pilgrimage ; to  the  abode  of  Jagannath 
on  the  Orissa  shore.  The  gentle  and  beautiful 
worship  of  Jagannath,  literally  the  Lord  of  the 
Universe,  before  whom  all  men  are  equal,  and 
within  whose  purifying  precincts  alone  all  castes 
can  eat  together,  appeals  in  a special  manner  to 
the  repressed  sympathies  of  Indian  women.  The 
offerings  to  this  much  misrepresented  god  are 


THE  TWO  ENCAMPMENTS  1 5 

offerings  of  flowers  and  grain,  not  of  blood. 
Thousands  of  Hindus  go  through  life  with  a longing 
to  partake  of  the  consecrated  rice  at  his  shrine, 
and  to  die  at  the  ‘ Gate  of  Heaven,’  a strip  of  sand 
with  the  temple  bells  of  his  holy  city  on  one  side 
and  the  boom  of  the  ocean  on  the  other.  He  is 
the  hearer  of  prayer ; and  the  poor  princess,  like 
many  a childless  woman  since,  was  hastening  the 
march  in  the  belief  that  she  had  only  to  pour  out 
her  heart  before  the  kind  god,  in  order  that  its 
desire  should  be  satisfied. 

But  one  evening  the  chief,  who  had  been  hunting 
in  the  forest,  was  brought  into  camp  clawed  by 
a bear.  He  died  next  morning,  and  the  nephews, 
having  no  leisure  to  settle  their  claims  to  the 
succession,  proclaimed  the  princess  regent  to  give 
them  time  for  intrigue.  She  sent  word  that  she 
had  already  devoted  herself  as  Sati,  literally  the 
True  Wife,  and  would  rejoin  her  husband  on 
the  funeral  pile.  The  kinsmen  tried  to  imprison 
her  by  pegging  down  the  door-flaps  of  the  tent, 
but  the  Rajput  princess  cut  through  the  canvas 
with  her  husband’s  sword,  and  calling  down  the 
wrath  of  God  on  any  who  should  stay  her  path, 


i6 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


she  walked  unveiled  to  the  pyre  and  consummated 
the  awful  rite.  She  had  found  her  Gate  ot 
Heaven — but  not  on  the  Orissa  shore. 

The  nephews  erected  one  of  those  little  plat- 
forms of  brick,  with  a stunted  dome  and  the  rudely 
carved  impression  of  a hand,  which  at  that  period 
marked  the  site  of  a Sati ; burned  down  a space 
in  the  jungle  around  it;  and  after  the  due  rites 
hurried  north  to  fight  for  the  succession.  The 
superstition  of  the  hillmen  kept  the  ground  clear 
in  after  generations.  The  grazing  of  the  pack- 
bullocks  that  halted  there  enlarged  it,  and  a creeper 
of  the  Indian  fig  or  banian,  which  found  root 
in  the  crumbling  monument,  grew  into  a great 
tree.  The  shape  of  the  brick  dome  could  still 
be  traced  in  the  heart  of  its  mighty  hollow  trunk. 

The  spot  became  a place  for  tribal  meetings 
of  the  hillmen,  and  a favourite  camping-ground 
on  the  western  pilgrim  route.  One  of  the  last 
of  the  independent  sovereigns  of  Bengal,  having 
happened  to  halt  there  with  his  troops,  caused  an 
artificial  lake  to  be  dug  for  the  use  of  travellers. 
The  tree,  now  about  three  hundred  years  old,  still 
went  by  the  name  of  the  Rajput  Princess’s  Banian, 


THE  TWO  ENCAMPMENTS 


17 


and  a slab  of  blue-stone  on  the  steps  leading  down 
to  the  water  bore  the  Persian  inscription  of  the 
Muhammadan  king : ‘ By  order  of  God,  whoso- 
ever shall  do  a good  deed,  he  shall  be  rewarded 
tenfold.  Allah-ud-din,  commonly  called  Husain 
Shah  Badshah,  son  of  Sayyid  Ashraf  Husain,  con- 
structed this  lake.  On  him  blessings.  May  God 
preserve  his  kingdom  and  his  people.  A.H.  922  ’ 

( = A.D.  1516). 

As  we  dismounted,  the  Old  Missionary  rose  and 
courteously  greeted  his  unexpected  visitors.  He 
was  a striking  figure,  tall  and  gaunt,  with  a long 
white  beard  and  large  sunken  eyes  which  had  in 
them  a look  of  settled  calm.  He  and  the  Governor 
met  as  old  friends,  and  after  some  talk  between 
them  about  the  past,  Sir  Charles  begged  our  host 
to  go  on  with  the  matter  before  him. 

A hillman,  who  had  been  away  from  his  village 
a few  years  at  work  on  the  new  railway,  loudly 
complained  that,  now  he  had  come  back,  he  found 
his  homestead  ploughed  up,  and  his  fields  par- 
celled out  among  the  tribesmen.  The  village  head 
pleaded,  in  reply,  the  hill  custom  of  re-distributing 
a man’s  land  if  he  remained  absent  during  two 


C 


i8 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


harvests,  but  offered,  according  to  that  custom, 
to  again  allot  to  the  returned  kinsman  a share 
in  the  hamlet  fields,  if  he  would  give  the  usual 
feast  to  the  village.  ‘ But  now  that  he  has  come 
back  rich,  he  has  grown  stingy  and  will  give 
nothing.’  The  other  elders  signified  their  assent 
to  this  unflattering  statement,  grunting  out ; ‘ He 
will  give  nothing;  he  will  give  nothing.’  The 
complainant  rejoined  that  the  fields  offered  to 
him  lay  high,  and  beyond  the  reach  of  water  from 
the  village  tank,  while  his  old  ones  were  among 
the  best  in  the  hamlet. 

After  hearing  both  sides  the  Old  Missionary 
delivered  judgement,  that  the  man  was  to  give 
a feast,  that  he  was  to  get  back  a fair  share  of  the 
watered  lands  with  the  grazing  right  for  his  buffa- 
loes in  the  jungle,  and  that,  to  make  his  name  great, 
he  should  enlarge  the  village  tank  which  no  longer 
sufficed  to  irrigate  the  surrounding  cultivation.  The 
elders  again  signified  their  approval,  repeating 
cordially : ‘ His  name  will  be  great ; his  name  will 
be  great.’  The  man  also  agreed,  and  the  reconciled 
kindred  moved  off  to  have  a friendly  wrangle  as 
to  the  exact  outlay  on  goat-flesh  and  rice-beer. 


THE  TWO  ENCAMPMENTS 


19 


Other  village  groups  edged  forward  in  front  of 
the  missionary,  with  salutations  of  ‘ O Incarnation 
of  Justice,’  ‘ O Refuge  of  the  Poor,’  each  bringing 
a boundary  dispute,  or  a feud  about  the  water- 
courses, or  some  knotty  question  of  inheritance, 
which  must  otherwise  be  determined  by  blows. 
I afterwards  learned  that  it  was  a practice  of  the 
Old  Missionary  on  Sunday  evenings  in  camp  to 
settle  all  quarrels  in  the  neighbouring  hamlets, 
so  that  at  least  on  one  day  in  the  week  the  sun 
should  go  down  on  no  man’s  wrath.  Sir  Charles, 
who  remembered  his  friend’s  custom,  sat  down 
on  the  grassy  bank  beside  him  to  watch  the  pro- 
ceedings. My  own  attention  was  drawn  to  the 
throng  around  the  native  pastor,  and  thither 
I strolled,  leaving  the  Old  Missionary  judging  his 
little  Israel  under  the  tree. 

The  preacher,  a young  Brahman  whose  slender 
form  and  finely-cut  features  contrasted  with  the 
square-set  bodies  and  bullet-heads  of  the  hillmen 
before  him,  appeared  to  be  coming  to  the  end  of 
his  discourse.  From  the  frequent  recurrence  of  the 
words,  I gathered  that  he  was  enforcing  the  text, 

‘ Heaven  and  earth  shall  pass  away,  but  My  words 
C 2 


20 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


shall  not  pass  away.’  He  spoke  of  the  ancient  hill 
shrines  in  the  country  around,  and  how  their  poor 
aboriginal  gods  had  had  to  give  place  to  the  strong 
clever  deities  from  the  Hindu  plains.  He  reminded 
the  tribesmen  that  one  Hindu  priest  after  another 
had  come  into  their  glens,  each  bringing  his  own 
divinity,  and  each  demanding  separate  offerings 
under  penalty  of  heaven-sent  destruction  and  wrath. 
There  was  a new  Hindu  god  to  be  appeased  at  seed- 
time, another  to  be  paid  at  harvest,  a third  to  be 
propitiated  in  seasons  of  famine,  a fourth  for  a con- 
sideration would  avert  the  small-pox,  besides  a mul- 
titude of  lesser  deities  who  took  toll  and  tax  at  every 
incident  of  domestic  life.  Here  some  accidental 
listeners  from  a non-Christian  hamlet  muttered  feel- 
ingly, ‘ The  Brahman  speaks  true.’  So,  he  con- 
tinued, your  fathers  were  in  bondage  to  many  gods, 
for  there  was  no  single  one  in  whom  they  could  put 
their  whole  trust.  Then  he  burst  forth  in  praise  of 
the  one  Christian  God,  whose  ear  is  open  in  all  sea- 
sons of  sorrow  and  in  all  time  of  gladness  : He  who 
slumbers  not  nor  sleeps,  but  stands  watch  over  His 
people,  as  the  mountains  stood  around  their  homes, 
the  same  yesterday,  to-day,  and  for  ever. 


THE  TWO  ENCAMPMENTS 


21 


I afterwards  knew  that  Indian  preacher  well ; 
knew  him  when  his  higher  nature  seemed  stifled 
amid  the  paltry  adulation  of  London  drawing- 
rooms ; knew  him  also  years  later,  when,  in  sor- 
row and  solitude,  he  began  afresh  the  work  which 
has  endeared  his  memory  to  the  hill  races.  But 
never  during  the  checkered  years  of  his  too  short 
life,  neither  at  the  height  of  his  fame,  nor  in  the 
pathos  of  his  self-abasement,  can  I recall  anything 
that  came  from  him  more  impressive  than  the 
words  with  which,  then  a youth  fresh  from  college, 
he  ended  his  discourse  in  that  forest  glade.  It 
is  difficult  in  a translation  to  preserve  the  effect, 
at  once  simple  and  solemn,  of  his  sentences  as 
they  flowed  forth  in  the  native  tongue : — 

‘ Heaven  and  earth  shall  pass  away.  During 
the  first  half  of  the  harvest  moon  you  see  thou- 
sands of  lights  shooting  through  the  air.  You 
call  them  the  Reapers’  Torches,  and  learned 
men  in  cities  say  they  are  the  materials  of  stars 
rushing  red-hot  through  the  sky  till  they  scatter 
and  go  out.  You  think  they  come  to  tell  you 
when  to  cut  your  November  rice.  But  God 
sends  them  as  His  blazing  heralds  from  heaven 


22 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


to  proclaim  that  the  heavens  themselves  are 
passing  away. 

‘ Earth,  too,  is  crumbling  beneath  our  feet. 
The  river  from  your  hills  no  sooner  spreads 
itself  upon  the  low  country  than  it  begins  to  rend 
away  its  banks,  tearing  out  for  itself  deep  chasms 
every  rainy  season,  and  covering  with  water  what 
was  solid  land.  The  villagers  along  its  sides,  as 
they  listen  in  terror  through  the  night  to  the 
thud,  thud  of  the  bank  falling  into  the  current, 
hear  in  every  noise  a warning  that  the  river  is 
drawing  nearer  to  devour  their  homes.  But  those 
sounds  are  the  voice  of  God  sent  forth  from  the 
darkness,  declaring  that  this  earth  itself  is  passing 
away. 

‘ Next  harvest,  when  you  lie  out  in  the  fields 
and  see  the  Reapers’  Torches  in  the  air,  say  to 
yourselves,  The  heavens  are  telling  of  the  glory 
of  God ; one  night  certifieth  another.  When  you 
are  floating  down  your  sal-trees  in  the  rains,  and 
you  tremble  as  the  raft  is  swept  towards  the  falling 
bank,  say,  The  earth  is  the  Lord’s ; He  is  my 
help  and  my  deliverer ; blessed  be  the  name  ot 
the  Lord.  For  who  is  God  save  the  Lord,  or 


THE  TWO  ENCAMPMENTS 


23 


who  is  a rock  save  our  God  ? Amid  all  changes, 
He  changes  not.  Heaven  and  earth  shall  pass 
away,  but  one  jot  or  one  tittle  of  His  word  shall 
not  pass  away  until  all  be  fulfilled.  Amen  and 
amen.’ 

The  short  Indian  twilight  began  to  fade,  and 
it  was  time  to  return  to  our  camp.  The  litigants 
under  the  banian-tree  had  already  dispersed,  and 
the  Governor  seemed  to  be  arguing  on  some 
not  altogether  harmonious  subject  with  the  mission- 
ary, whose  daughter,  a sweet  and  silent  child  of 
nine,  was  now  nestling  close  to  the  old  man’s 
side.  Sir  Charles  jumped  up  as  I approached, 
and  saying,  1 At  any  rate,  I shall  think  over  it,’ 
rode  off  with  a cordial  farewell.  For  the  first 
few  miles  his  pace  left  no  leisure  for  any  reflection 
except  how  to  keep  one’s  head  clear  of  the 
branches.  But  as  we  emerged  from  the  brush- 
wood on  to  the  hard  fissured  downs,  he  slackened 
into  a trot,  and  asked  what  I thought  of  the 
young  preacher.  I said  he  was  a man  of  remark- 
able eloquence. 

‘ I am  glad  to  hear  it,’  replied  Sir  Charles,  ‘ for 
he  is  the  first  convert  that  my  old  friend  has 


24 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


ever  felt  sure  of.  In  former  days,  if  I ventured  to 
congratulate  him  on  his  success  among  the  people, 
he  used  to  say,  sadly,  that  during  his  long  life 
he  had  baptized  many,  but  he  did  not  know  that 
he  had  made  a single  Christian.  Christianity, 
he  maintained,  can  only  grow  up  among  native 
converts  in  the  second  generation.  This  Brah- 
man lad,  whom  he  sheltered  from  the  wrath  of 
his  relatives  and  sent  to  college  in  Calcutta,  has 
given  the  Old  Missionary  a new  hopefulness  in 
his  work.’ 

1 But,’  I interposed,  ‘who  is  the  Old  Missionary? 
He  has  been  out  on  his  cold-weather  tour  ever 
since  I came  to  the  District.’ 

‘ Not  been  long  enough  in  the  District  to  know 
the  Old  Missionary,  and  yet  long  enough  to 
almost  persuade  me  to  double  your  budget  allow- 
ance for  roads!  Behold  the  ways  of  the  Under- 
secretary turned  magistrate.  At  any  rate,  I should 
know  him  well,  for  I spent  the  happiest  years  of 
my  life  within  sight  of  his  deserted  house  on  the 
Solway.  The  first  sound  that  I seem  to  remem- 
ber is  the  tramp  of  his  father’s  wooden  leg,  as 
the  old  commodore  stumped  up  the  aisle  of  our 


THE  TWO  ENCAMPMENTS  25 

Cumberland  village  church.  The  Old  Missionary 
himself  joined  the  fleet  as  a midshipman  during 
its  long  watch  outside  Toulon,  and  saw  Nelson’s 
signal  run  up  at  Trafalgar.  He  left  the  navy  at 
the  close  of  the  war,  and  after  several  wild  years 
ending  in  a love-sorrow,  he  cut  himself  off  from  his 
former  life  and  shocked  his  people  by  going  out 
to  India  as  a missionary.  He  had  once,  I believe, 
a sort  of  connexion  with  some  Society,  but  he 
would  take  no  pay,  buried  himself  in  the  wilds 
of  this  then  jungly  district,  and  built  his  church 
and  school-house  at  his  own  expense. 

‘ When  I was  here  as  magistrate,  he  lived  en- 
tirely among  the  natives,  and  one  of  his  fancies 
was  never  to  travel  by  carriage  or  horseback  on 
an  earth  over  which  his  Master  had  journeyed 
on  foot.  Trafalgar  Douglas  we  used  to  call  him, 
and  already  even  his  nickname  seems  to  be  for- 
gotten ! He  has  a child  now,  but  I could  as  soon 
have  imagined  Saint  Simeon  Stylites  a married 
man.  The  fact  is  that  about  ten  years  ago, 
a brother  missionary  on  his  way  down  from 
Benares  died  after  a long  illness  in  his  house, 
leaving  a daughter  penniless  and  without  a friend. 


26 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


So  Trafalgar  Douglas,  who  was  the  soul  of  chivalry 
to  women  although  he  never  spoke  to  them,  finding 
it  inconvenient  to  shelter  the  young  lady  on  other 
terms,  married  her.  She  died  in  giving  birth  to 
the  little  girl  whom  you  saw  this  evening.’ 

We  rode  on  in  silence,  the  Governor  apparently 
pursuing  some  train  of  thought  which  it  was  not 
my  place  to  interrupt.  As  our  camp  fires  came 
in  sight,  he  suddenly  asked : — 

1 How  many  of  the  hillmen  have  you  still  in 
jail  for  their  last  outbreak  ? ’ 

‘ About  fifty,  sir,’  I replied. 

‘ Seven  years,’  he  said,  1 are  a long  time  to  have 
suffered  for  a folly  which  was  perhaps  as  much 
our  fault  as  theirs.  The  judge  was  at  me  all  the 
afternoon  on  their  behalf;  and  strangely  enough 
the  missionary  got  upon  the  same  subject.  I must 
say  for  Trafalgar  Douglas  that  if  we  had  listened 
to  his  warnings,  the  oppressions  of  the  money- 
lenders which  drove  the  tribes  to  revolt  would 
have  been  looked  into  before  the  rising  instead 
of  after  it.  He  kept  his  own  hillmen  quiet,  too, 
through  the  business,  and  so  broke  up  the  com- 
mon agreement  which  might  have  rendered  the 


THE  TWO  ENCAMPMENTS 


27 


affair  more  awkward  than  it  proved.  He  men- 
tioned that  there  were  nearly  a hundred  sentenced  ; 
what  has  become  of  the  balance  ? ’ 

‘ The  doctor  tells  me  that  the  older  men  pined 
to  death  in  their  first  year  of  confinement.  A few 
have  been  liberated ; these  that  remain  seem 
happy  enough,  and  raise  vegetables  for  the 
whole  Station  as  well  as  for  the  jail.  They 
have  an  idea  that  they  are  to  serve  the  Queen 
for  fourteen  years,  and  then  go  back  in  honour 
to  their  villages.’ 

‘ Well,  send  me  the  record  of  the  case,  please ; 
with  the  names  of  the  ten  against  whom  least 
was  proved.  I scarcely  understand  how  the 
missionary  led  me  into  a subject  which  I have 
always  avoided  with  him.  But  the  highest  piety 
seems  to  win  its  way  as  unconsciously  as  the 
finest  tact.  What  a work  he  has  done  in  those 
hills  without  ever  knowing  it ! I once  asked  him, 
when  I was  magistrate  of  the  District,  to  tell  me 
his  secret  for  managing  six  thousand  borderers 
without  a policeman  or  a case  ever  coming  into 
court.  He  answered  simply  that  they  were  Chris- 
tians. Why,  his  encampment  to  night  is  on  the 


28 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


very  spot  where  the  clans  assembled  yearly 
after  the  November  harvest,  to  hold  their  drunken 
festival  of  the  New  Rice,  and  then  to  sally  forth 
on  their  cold-weather  raid  upon  the  lowlands. 
If  anything  were  to  happen  to  my  old  friend, 
I wonder  what  would  become  of  his  Civitas  Dei 
in  the  forest.’ 

Next  day  we  all  rode  with  His  Honour  to 
the  borders  of  our  jurisdiction,  where  the  officers 
of  the  next  District  were  waiting  for  him.  With 
the  help  of  the  clever  pen  of  the  assistant  magis- 
trate, I made  what  we  flattered  ourselves  was  an 
unanswerable  case  for  the  release  not  of  ten  but 
of  twenty  of  the  hill  prisoners  ; experience  having 
taught  us  that  if  a District  Officer  is  to  get  an 
inch  from  the  Secretariat  he  must  show  cause  for 
an  ell.  In  a couple  of  months  a release  arrived 
from  Government  for  fifteen  of  them,  and  as  the 
Old  Missionary  had  come  in  from  camp,  I rode 
over  to  his  house  to  tell  him  the  good  news. 


[ 29  ] 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  SCHOLAR  AND  HIS  CHILD 

The  Missionary’s  dwelling  was  a straggling 
one-storied  bungalow,  with  the  thick  thatch  pro- 
jecting low  over  the  veranda.  Originally  it  must 
have  consisted  of  two  small  rooms.  Various  artless 
additions,  jutting  out  at  angles  to  avoid  the  sun  or 
to  catch  the  breeze,  recorded  the  changing  needs 
of  a long  life,  as  the  want  of  an  office  for  the  sale 
of  books,  or  of  a dispensary  for  the  sick,  or  ot 
chambers  for  his  wife  and  child,  arose.  But  the 
rough  wooden  pillars  of  the  veranda  were  festooned 
with  flowering  creepers  which  gave  a picturesque 
unity  and  a grateful  sense  of  greenness  to  the 
whole.  The  cottage  stood  in  an  ample  orchard  ot 
mangoes,  guavas,  custard -apples,  and  other  fruit- 
bearing trees,  planted  by  the  missionary’s  own 
hand  in  skilful  rows  to  allow  free  passage  for 
the  wind. 

A servant  told  me  that  his  master  would  be 


3° 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


back  presently  from  Morning  Service,  and  I amused 
myself  till  his  return  by  straying  about  his  library. 
This  room,  large,  bare,  and  coarsely  matted,  with 
a folding  camp-table  and  a few  cane  chairs  and 
country-made  bookshelves  rising  right  up  to  the 
whitewashed  canvas  ceiling,  had  the  faint  smell  of 
damp  volumes  and  decaying  binding  which  is  the 
true  odour  of  literature  in  Bengal.  It  opened  on  a 
little  rose-garden  that  led  down  by  dilapidated  brick 
steps  to  a fish-pond  overgrown  with  water-lilies, 
from  whose  depths  had  been  excavated  the  clay 
for  the  thick  mud  walls  of  the  house,  and  for 
the  mission  chapel  half  screened  by  trees  on  the 
opposite  bank. 

The  Old  Missionary’s  library  contained  a nonde- 
script and  rather  tattered  collection  of  grammars 
and  lexicons  of  the  Indian  vernaculars,  a few  San- 
skrit texts,  translations  of  the  Testament  in  various 
Indian  dialects,  medical  works,  and  a dusty  shelf 
of  treatises  of  the  Irvingite  sect.  The  inner  end 
of  the  room  was  lined  with  a bookcase  partitioned 
into  pigeon-holes,  for  the  manuscript  slips  of  the 
dictionary  of  the  hill-language  on  which  the  old 
man  had  long  been  at  work.  In  earlier  life  he 


THE  SCHOLAR  AND  HIS  CHILD  31 

compiled  a grammar  of  that  hitherto  unwritten 
speech.  The  dictionary  was  the  labour  of  his  age, 
and  as  its  progress  became  slower  with  advancing 
years,  the  venerable  scholar  had  grown  almost 
querulously  anxious  about  its  completion.  Of  late 
the  assistant  magistrate,  and  the  Sanskrit  pandit 
who  followed  the  fortunes  of  that  young  officer, 
had  been  helping  as  volunteers.  In  a corner  of 
the  room  stood  a redwood  press  filled  with  books 
of  a very  different  sort — voyages  and  naval  bio- 
graphies of  the  last  century,  with  bundles  of  faded 
letters  and  papers  sent  out  to  the  missionary  from 
his  deserted  Scottish  home,  on  his  father’s  death. 

These  bundles  afterwards  passed  into  my  hands, 
and  from  them  I have  learned  what  I know  about 
my  old  friend’s  family  and  life.  The  branch  of  the 
Douglasses  of  which  he  was  the  last  male  repre- 
sentative perched  securely  through  the  Border 
wars  on  their  tower  overlooking  the  Solway.  But 
an  unlucky  ancestor  followed  King  James  to  London 
in  1603,  and  was  one  of  those  foolish  Scottish 
gentlemen  who  ruined  themselves  by  vying  with 
the  richer  English  courtiers.  His  impoverished 
descendants  lost  place  among  the  magnates  of 


32 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


their  shire,  and  they  were  hated  by  the  peasantry 
for  their  Episcopalian  faith,  which  was  all  that 
the  spendthrift  knight  brought  back  from  the 
South.  Before  the  Jacobite  rebellions  in  the  next 
century,  the  family  had  sold  their  land  almost  to  the 
mouth  of  the  river  on  whose  high  bank  their  castle 
stood.  Seignorial  claims  to  harbour  dues  em- 
broiled each  succeeding  head  of  the  house  with  the 
fishermen  and  the  masters  of  salt-sloops.  The 
king’s  officers  suspected  the  Tower  not  merely 
of  the  venial  offence  of  smuggling,  but  of  graver 
dealings  with  the  Pretender  at  St.  Germains. 

Only  once  during  two  centuries  did  the  race 
produce  a man  of  note.  This  was  a devoted 
Anglican  priest,  whose  character  stood  out  in 
strange  contrast  to  the  wild  and  sullen  stock  from 
which  he  sprang.  Having  resisted  for  conscience 
sake  the  warnings  of  the  Covenanting  farmers, 
he  was  driven  across  the  Border  with  violence, 
and  ended  as  a canon  of  Carlisle.  Among  the  Old 
Missionary’s  books  an  early  copy  of  Quarles’s 
Emblems  in  wooden  boards  bore  a faded  signa- 
ture, ‘ Carolus  Douglas,  presb.,’  with  the  comment 
‘Rabbled  in  1689’  in  a later  hand.  A quaint 


THE  SCHOLAR  AND  HIS  CHILD 


33 


duodecimo  of  1633,  the  first  edition  of  George 
Herbert’s  Temple , had  the  words  ‘ Saved  from 
the  Rabblement  ’ on  the  title-page. 

The  Douglasses  of  the  Tower  emerged  like  many 
another  depressed  Scottish  family  during  Lord 
Bute’s  brief  supremacy  in  1762.  The  heir  of  the 
house  entered  the  navy,  and,  having  raised  a ship’s 
company  among  the  Solway  fishermen,  advanced 
in  his  profession.  Forty-two  years  he  passed  in 
the  service,  forty  of  them  at  sea,  sometimes 
cruising  for  over  twenty  months  without  drop- 
ping anchor.  He  became  one  of  the  famous 
‘ chasing  captains  ’ of  the  long  war,  and  purchased 
back  a stretch  of  the  family  moorland  with  his 
prize-money.  He  retired  with  a shattered  leg  as 
Commodore,  sailing  home  to  the  Solway  in  a half- 
sinking frigate  which  he  had  captured  from  the 
Spaniards,  and  afterwards  bought  in  for  a trifle 
from  the  Admiralty.  With  its  timbers  and  fine 
mahogany  planks  he  rebuilt  the  old  staircase  of 
the  Tower,  so  that  every  morning  he  might  have 
the  fierce  pleasure  of  treading  the  enemy  under  foot. 
A gentle  Cumberland  girl,  whom  he  married 
during  a short  interval  on  shore,  did  not  live  long. 


D 


34 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


Their  only  child,  now  the  Old  Missionary,  was 
early  sent  to  sea.  A letter  in  his  boyish  hand 
just  after  Trafalgar,  told  the  weather-beaten  father 
how  his  ship,  ‘ the  Royal  Sovereign , Rear-Admiral 
Collingwood,  was  the  first  to  break  the  enemy’s 
line  by  passing  astern  a Spanish  three-decker 
and  ahead  of  a Spanish  eighty-four,’  together  with 
several  curious  episodes  of  the  fight.  The  gallant 
little  midshipman  was  sent  adrift  at  the  close  of 
the  war. 

What  brought  him  out  to  India  as  a missionary 
some  years  afterwards,  whether  remorse  for  a mis- 
adventure in  which  a friend  lost  his  life  as  seems 
hinted,  or  a love-sorrow  as  was  popularly  sup- 
posed, does  not  appear  in  the  papers.  He  once 
mentioned  to  me  that  it  was  while  reading  Captain 
Cook’s  voyages  the  missionary  idea  occurred  to 
him.  A few  years  of  Evangelism  convinced  him, 
however,  that  little  was  to  be  done  by  mere 
preaching.  He  went  home,  studied  in  Edinburgh 
for  a degree  in  surgery,  and  after  coming  under 
the  influence  of  Edward  Irving,  returned  to  India 
as  a medical  missionary,  deeply  imbued  with  the 
mysteries  and  symbolism  of  the  Catholic  Apostolic 


THE  SCHOLAR  AND  HIS  CHILD  35 

Church.  In  later  life  he  advanced  beyond  this 
phase.  Long  before  I knew  him  he  had  become 
simply  the  spiritual  and  temporal  leader  of  the 
hillmen.  He  remained  a Scotch  Episcopalian  as 
his  forefathers  had  been ; but  with  no  strong 
dogmas,  and  only  a great  daily  desire  to  do  the 
best  for  his  people. 

Presently  I heard  him  walking  round  the  fish- 
pond from  the  little  chapel,  in  converse  with  the 
young  Brahman  preacher  of  the  forest  glade. 
When  they  came  to  the  door,  the  youth  made 
a deep  obeisance  to  his  senior,  and  passed  on  to 
the  school- house. 

‘ Ah ! ’ said  the  Old  Missionary,  after  I had  told 
my  news,  ‘ Providence  is  very  kind.  All  my  life 
I have  been  doubting  whether  there  was  any  fruit 
of  my  labour.  And  now,  in  my  old  age,  God  has 
sent  that  young  man  to  touch  the  hearts  of  the 
people  in  a way  that  I never  could.  You,  too, 
bring  welcome  tidings  about  the  deliverance  of 
these  poor  hillmen.  Only  think,  Mr.  Ormiston, 
that  good  Brahman  youth  has  secretly  saved  up 
the  scholarship  stipend  which  he  won  at  college, 
saved  it  by  stinting  his  own  food  for  three  years, 
D 2 


36  THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 

and  has  had  a bell  cast  for  the  chapel.  He  was 
just  asking  leave  to  put  up  a belfry  in  which  to 
place  it.  Hut  I wonder  what  keeps  Mr.  Ayton  ? 
He  and  his  pandit  are  usually  here  and  at  work 
before  I come  in  from  prayers.’ 

Ayton  was  the  assistant  magistrate.  A Boden 
Scholar  and  a Fellow  of  his  college,  he  formed  one 
of  the  brilliant  group  whom  the  Indian  Civil 
Service,  on  its  being  thrown  open  to  competition, 
attracted  from  the  Universities.  On  that  morning 
I had  sent  him  out  to  look  at  a bridge  on  a new 
road  ten  miles  off,  where  the  contractors  were 
trying  to  scamp  their  work.  I explained  his 
absence  to  the  missionary,  and  asked,  with  some 
hesitation,  if  I could  be  of  any  use  in  his  place. 
The  old  man  courteously  concealed  his  chagrin, 
and  accepted  the  offer.  Meanwhile  the  pandit 
slipped  into  the  room  with  a dignified  saluta- 
tion, and  the  missionary's  little  daughter  silently 
took  her  seat  at  the  writing-table  by  her  father’s 
side. 

It  was  the  last  stage  in  dictionary-making,  and  a 
novel  experience  to  me.  The  missionary,  having 
collected  his  list  of  words  among  the  highlanders 


THE  SCHOLAR  AND  HIS  CHILD  37 

of  the  border,  was  never  quite  certain  whether 
they  really  belonged  to  the  aboriginal  hill-lan- 
guage, or  whether  they  might  not  have  been 
imported  from  the  Sanskrit  dialects  of  the  plains. 
The  slips  of  paper,  each  containing  a word  and  its 
meanings,  were  brought  forth  from  their  alpha- 
betical pigeon-holes  and  placed  before  him.  The 
pandit,  who  sat  contemplative,  pronounced  accord- 
ing to  his  ancient  rules  whether  each  successive 
word  had  a connexion  with  any  Sanskrit  root. 
Meanwhile  I examined  the  lexicons  of  several 
Indian  vernaculars,  to  see  if  it  had  a counterpart 
in  the  dialects  of  the  lowlands.  When  the  process 
was  finished  and  the  result  noted  down,  the  little 
daughter  neatly  pasted  the  slip  in  its  alpha- 
betical order  on  a sheet  of  tough  yellow  country 
paper — yellow  from  the  arsenic  which  had  been 
mixed  in  the  pulp  to  protect  it  from  fish-insects 
and  white  ants. 

It  required  a more  profound  knowledge  of  San- 
skrit than  I possessed,  although  in  my  time  a High 
Proficiency  man,  to  check  the  learned  pandit’s 
decisions.  In  fact,  my  only  use  was  to  save  the 
missionary’s  eyes  which  had  lately  been  troubling 


38 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


him,  by  looking  through  the  dictionaries  of  the 
lowland  dialects.  The  old  man  felt  the  want  of 
Ayton’s  finer  touch ; and  I was  glad  when,  soon 
after  eight,  the  short  springy  canter  of  an  Arab 
along  the  road  announced  his  approach. 

‘ Quick,  May  dear,’  said  the  missionary.  ‘ Get 
some  tea  and  toast.  I hear  Mr.  Ayton’s  horse, 
and  he  must  have  been  out  before  sunrise.’  Pre- 
sently that  gentleman  appeared  in  boots  and  spurs, 
a tall  and  handsome  young  Yorkshireman,  rather 
heavy  for  the  high-bred  animal  he  rode. 

‘ It  was  good  of  you  to  come  so  quickly,’  was 
the  old  man’s  welcome.  ‘ We  have  still  two  hours 
before  breakfast.  But  the  roads  are  like  iron  now, 
and  I hope  you  have  not  ridden  your  Arab  too 
hard.’ 

1 Not  a bit,  thank  you,’  replied  Ayton  ; 4 I sent 
a pony  on  half  way,  and  Amir  is  all  the  better 
for  having  a little  taken  out  of  him  these  cold 
mornings.’ 

So  we  went  to  work  in  earnest,  Ayton  agreeing 
with  the  pandit  and  passing  each  word  in  a 
moment,  or  disagreeing  with  him,  and  flashing  the 
light  of  Western  philology  on  the  Brahman’s  old- 


THE  SCHOLAR  AND  HIS  CHILD  39 

world  methods.  In  either  case  his  decision  gave 
that  sense  of  finality  which  had  been  wanting  be- 
fore. But  the  quicker  we  got  through  the  little 
pile  of  slips,  the  more  nervous  the  old  scholar  be- 
came to  hasten  the  pace.  He  seemed  to  feel,  too, 
that  every  word  which  Ayton  rejected  as  not  really 
belonging  to  the  hill-language  was  a personal  loss. 
Once  or  twice,  when  several  had  been  thus  put 
aside  in  succession,  a troubled  look  passed  over  his 
face.  At  such  moments  the  silent  little  girl  would 
touch  his  elbow  almost  imperceptibly  with  her  soft 
cheek,  and  the  old  man,  without  seeming  to  per- 
ceive the  motion,  at  once  resumed  his  air  of  habitual 
gentleness.  Shortly  after  ten  we  broke  up,  Ayton 
and  I galloping  home  to  bathe  and  breakfast  before 
going  to  our  respective  Courts. 

A few  weeks  afterwards,  in  passing  the  Mission- 
ary’s cottage,  I saw  a bullock-cart  under  his  trees, 
and  that  small  bustle  of  baggage-carriers  and  ser- 
vants about  the  veranda  which  in  India  betokens  a 
move  into  camp.  I rode  up  to  ask  what  could  be 
taking  my  old  friend  out  so  late  in  the  season,  with 
the  hot  winds  of  April  already  blowing.  He  was 
sitting  at  his  writing-table,  with  the  dictionary  un- 


4° 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


heeded  before  him,  much  perturbed  by  news  of  a riot 
attended  by  bloodshed  in  a Christian  village  forty 
miles  off.  I found  the  place  lay  in  the  direction  of 
a jungle  tract  where  I had  to  settle  certain  forest 
disputes — a part  of  my  cold-weather  tour  which  I 
reserved  till  the  drying  up  of  the  higher  water- 
courses might  give  me  a chance  at  a tiger  during 
my  visit.  I begged  the  old  scholar  to  allow  me  to 
drive  him  out,  and  said  I could  arrange  to  start 
next  morning.  At  first  he  declined,  explaining  that 
only  his  infirmities  and  his  unwillingness  to  leave 
his  child  at  home,  with  no  English  lady  in  the 
station,  had  led  him  to  use  a conveyance  at  all. 
His  objections  to  driving,  whatever  they  may  once 
have  been,  were  of  no  sentimental  sort.  Experience 
taught  him,  he  said,  that  it  was  only  by  walking 
with  a few  disciples  from  hamlet  to  hamlet  that  he 
had  in  early  years  been  able  to  win  the  confidence 
of  the  villagers,  and  he  was  afraid  of  impairing  his 
influence  in  his  old  age  by  coming  among  them  in 
any  less  simple  form. 

I suspect  he  was  right.  Indeed  it  often 
occurred  to  me  that  we  officials,  by  our  horses 
and  retinues  of  well-dressed  servants,  always  give 


THE  SCHOLAR  AND  HIS  CHILD  4 1 

the  natives  a fear  that  they  are  intruding  — a 
fear  which  only  the  greatest  administrators  like 
Lawrence  and  Malcolm,  and  the  greatest  mission- 
aries like  Carey  and  Duff,  have  quite  overcome. 
I urged,  however,  the  waste  of  half  a week  away 
from  his  beloved  dictionary  in  doing  by  bullocks 
what  horses  could  accomplish  in  a half-dozen  hours. 
The  risks  to  his  little  girl  from  several  days’  ex- 
posure so  late  in  the  season  in  a country  cart,  with 
only  a thin  covering  from  the  sun,  were  also  con- 
siderable. In  the  end  he  allowed  himself  to  be 
persuaded ; so  my  tents  went  off  in  the  afternoon, 
and  next  morning  we  started  at  daybreak. 

At  that  time  I used  on  my  district  tours,  when 
not  riding,  a light  strong  curricle  which  I had 
bought  during  a three  months’  holiday  in  Australia, 
broad  enough  to  go  down  the  steep  banks  of  the 
gullies  without  overturning.  Its  width  allowed  the 
little  girl  to  sit  between  the  old  man  and  myself  on 
the  front  seat,  and  it  was  pretty  to  see  how  the  shy 
child  grew  into  a bright  and  observant  companion. 
During  the  first  ten  miles  she  watched  the  horses 
working,  without  a word.  When  we  paused  at  the 
end  of  the  stage  for  our  second  pair,  and  to  have 


42 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


coffee  under  a tree,  her  small  motherly  cares  for 
her  father  were  very  pathetic. 

Not  less  touching  were  her  surprise  and  delight 
at  the  modest  preparations  which  had  been  made 
for  her  comfort  on  our  next  halt,  during  the  heat 
of  the  day.  It  was  one  of  the  ordinary  wayside 
mango-groves  used  for  camping  by  the  District 
officers  on  tour.  But  the  trees  were  in  full  flower, 
and  my  people,  with  the  native’s  natural  politeness, 
had  tried  to  make  her  little  tent  pretty.  Her 
exclamations  of  pleasure  at  finding  her  old  nurse, 
who  had  come  on  an  hour  earlier  in  my  dog-cart, 
and  her  little  zinc  bath,  with  her  fancy  work-basket 
and  a story-book  and  some  flowers  on  a miniature 
wicker-table,  ‘just  as  if  she  was  at  home,’  spoke  of 
a childhood  passed  in  ignorance  of  those  petty 
attentions  which  are  a matter  of  course  to  English 
children  in  India. 

All  forenoon  the  servants,  proud  of  their  un- 
wonted charge  but  rather  anxious,  were  trotting 
after  her  with  a sun-umbrella  as  she  popped  in  and 
out  of  the  two  tents,  in  the  shade  of  the  thick  green 
foliage.  Now  it  was  the  first  relay  of  horses  march- 
ing into  the  grove,  and  she  must  go  forth  to  see 


THE  SCHOLAR  AND  HIS  CHILD  43 

them  fed.  Then  it  was  the  second  pair  being-  sent 
off  to  wait  for  us  on  the  road,  and  she  must  give 
them  a parting  plateful  of  chopped  sugar-cane. 
Her  innumerable  discoveries  among  the  blossom- 
laden trees,  about  the  squirrels,  and  the  flashing 
scolding  jays,  and  the  very  human  antics  of  the 
long-tailed  monkeys,  and  a harmless  water-snake 
who  had  landed  from  a neighbouring  pond  to 
warm  himself  in  the  spring  sunshine,  were  poured 
forth  every  few  moments  as  she  rushed  into  the 
tent  where  her  father  reposed.  The  old  man  for- 
got his  unfinished  work  at  home,  and  the  trouble- 
some task  awaiting  him  on  the  morrow,  and  listened 
to  her  swift  succession  of  news  from  outside  with  a 
pleasure  scarcely  less  childlike  than  her  own.  After 
luncheon  she  read  him  to  sleep,  and  then  plied  her 
fingers  silently  over  some  small  feminine  industry, 
watching  his  slightest  movement.  It  was  the  broken 
sleep  of  anxious  old  age.  If  he  started  or  muttered, 
she  at  once  went  on  reading  at  the  point  where  she 
had  left  off,  and  the  uneasy  dreamer  without  open- 
ing his  eyes  became  calm  at  the  sound  of  her  voice. 

When  at  length  he  awoke,  her  quick  little 
divinations  of  his  wants,  and  the  way  in  which 


44 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


she  gently  but  effectively  took  charge  of  our 
comforts,  were  very  sweet.  One  might  have  sup- 
posed that  she  had  all  her  life  been  accustomed 
to  make  afternoon  tea  for  two  gentlemen  under 
the  door-flap  of  a tent. 

On  our  third  stage  of  ten  miles  in  the  cool 
of  the  evening,  she  became  such  a friend  of  the 
horses  that  she  held  the  reins.  Before  the  fourth 
stage  was  over,  her  little  head,  wearied  out  with 
the  excitement  of  the  long  day,  was  sound  asleep 
on  her  father’s  shoulder.  As  we  splashed  through 
the  river,  beyond  which  shone  the  windows  of  the 
Factory  where  we  were  to  rest  for  the  night,  she 
opened  her  eyes  wonderingly  on  the  shallow  line  of 
water  silvered  over  by  the  moonlight.  Then  mur- 
muring ‘ How  beautiful,’  she  nestled  closer  to  her 
father  and  fell  over  again  in  a moment.  Presently 
the  horses  were  straining  up  the  high  river-bank, 
and  we  carried  her  wrapped  in  a shawl,  but  still 
fast  asleep  amid  the  red  glare  of  torches  and  the 
hearty  greetings  of  our  host,  into  the  ancient 
Factory. 


[ 45  ] 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  PARTING  OF  THE  PEOPLE 

The  Factory  was  a fortified  enclosure  of  the 
last  century,  perched  upon  the  steep  river-bank. 
Massive  buttresses  had  protected  its  many-angled 
walls  and  bastions  against  the  current  until  fifty 
years  ago,  when  the  channel  shifted  across  to  the 
opposite  side  of  its  broad  bed,  leaving  their  solid 
foundations  high  and  dry  in  the  air.  During  the 
rainy  season  the  floods  still  dashed  against  the 
outworks.  But  throughout  eight  months  of  the 
year,  one  looked  down  from  the  battlements  on 
a distant  thread  of  water  glistening  amid  a wide 
expanse  of  sand. 

It  was  one  of  the  East  India  Company’s  earliest 
silk  factories  in  Bengal,  planted  on  the  edge  of 
a forest  region  which  had  yielded  the  delicate 
fabrics  worn  in  the  Imperial  seraglio.  Fortified 
alike  against  the  river  and  the  hill  tribes,  it  be- 


46 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


came  a safe  place  for  merchandise  and  industry 
during  the  breaking  up  of  the  Mughal  dynasty. 
Settlements  of  silk-weavers  clustered  under  its 
walls,  and  the  surrounding  jungle  was  gradually 
thrust  back  before  an  advancing  semicircle  of 
mulberry  cultivation.  When  the  East  India  Com- 
pany retired  from  trade  to  concentrate  its  energies 
on  government,  the  old  Factory  and  its  adjacent 
lands  were  bought  for  a small  price  by  an 
Italian.  This  worthy  artisan  had  been  brought 
out  to  instruct  the  Company’s  silk-workers  in 
better  methods  of  treating  the  cocoons,  and,  after 
faithful  service  to  his  Honourable  Masters,  found 
himself  in  his  old  age  making  a fortune  for  him- 
self. His  first  thought  was  to  obtain  the  com- 
panionship of  a fellow-countryman  in  his  exile, 
and  at  the  same  time  to  render  thanks  to  our 
Lady  of  Siena  for  his  good  luck.  He  accom- 
plished both  objects  by  sending  for  his  nephew,  one 
of  those  kindly  peasants  dipped  in  ink  who  then 
formed  the  rank  and  file  of  the  Italian  priesthood. 

The  young  kinsman  proved  to  be  a man  with 
plenty  of  rustic  shrewdness,  and  he  made  himself 
quite  at  home  among  the  husbandmen.  Indeed, 


THE  PARTING  OF  THE  PEOPLE  47 

the  Indian  peasant  proprietors  were  exactly  of  the 
class  amid  whom  he  had  been  born  and  brought 
up  in  Tuscany.  He  won  their  goodwill  by  stamp- 
ing out  a troublesome  disease  of  the  silk- worms, 
partly  by  improved  ventilation,  but  visibly  aided 
by  the  sprinkling  of  holy-water  in  the  breeding 
sheds,  and  by  a procession  through  the  mulberry 
fields,  himself  marching  at  its  head  with  the  Host 
and  a censer,  lustily  chanting  a Latin  psalm. 

The  simple  folk  saw  no  harm  in  adding  the 
pretty  stucco  Lady,  whom  he  set  up  in  an  out- 
house, to  the  other  deities  that  they  propitiated  at 
various  stages  of  the  cultivation.  On  the  death 
of  his  uncle  the  whole  concern  came  under  his 
pastoral  sway.  His  people  willingly  paid  him  the 
little  compliment  of  bringing  their  babies  to  be 
baptized,  the  more  gladly  as  he  tied  a small  silver 
coin  round  the  neck  of  each  infant  Christian.  He 
attempted  no  flights  in  orthodoxy,  but  was  quietly 
happy  to  see,  on  the  annual  festivals  of  the 
Church,  an  increasing  throng  of  devotees  arrayed 
in  their  holiday  garments,  streaming  in  from  the 
hamlets  to  lay  their  rosemary  garlands  before  his 
tinsel  shrine. 


48 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


He  in  his  turn  passed  away  at  a ripe  age,  and 
the  Calcutta  firm  who  next  bought  the  Factory 
found  to  their  surprise  that  they  had  a Christian 
population  on  their  hands.  The  Scottish  gentle- 
man at  the  head  of  the  business  engaged  an  elderly 
disciple  from  the  Serampur  Mission  to  look  after 
the  villagers,  and,  having  thus  satisfied  his  con- 
science, troubled  himself  no  further  in  the  matter. 
The  elderly  disciple  settled  down  in  sleek  and 
friendly  comfort  among  his  isolated  flock : his 
Baptist  theology  but  little  interfering  with  the 
careless  Romanism  left  behind  by  the  Italian 
priest. 

When  the  Company  of  Jesus  assumed  active 
charge  of  the  Catholic  communities  in  Lower 
Bengal,  they  sent  an  agent  to  report  on  this 
lapsed  settlement.  Their  missioner  found  the 
villagers  in  contented  enjoyment  of  a union  of 
Christian  and  Hindu  rites,  of  proved  efficacy  for 
bringing  seasonable  rain,  for  preventing  blight 
among  the  silk-worms,  and  for  propitiating  the 
many  local  deities  who  concern  themselves  with 
the  mulberry  cultivation.  The  chief  sign  of  their 
Catholic  faith  was  the  firing  of  the  three  old 


THE  PARTING  OF  THE  PEOPLE  49 

Factory  cannon,  named  the  Father,  the  Mother, 
and  the  Son,  on  Easter  morning-  and  Trinity 
Sunday.  The  acute  Jesuit  also  thought  he  de- 
tected a relic  of  apostolic  teaching  in  a sort  of 
spell  used  over  the  sick  when  administering  medi- 
cine, Paian  Noshtan  Keshan  Shelas — apparently 
a diversion  for  pathological  purposes  of  the  Pater 
noster  qui  es  in  cceiis,  as  pronounced  by  the 
Italian  peasant-priest. 

By  one  of  those  seeming  misapplications  of  force 
which  occur  from  time  to  time  in  the  history  of 
the  Jesuit  Missions,  a man  of  high  culture  was 
sent  to  revive  the  faith  in  the  little  silk-weaving 
settlement.  After  earning  fame  as  a mathematical 
professor  in  the  seminaries  of  the  Order  in  Bel- 
gium and  at  Rome,  Father  Jerome  had  been 
brought  out  to  India  to  fill  a similar  post  in 
Saint  Xavier’s  College  at  Calcutta.  Whether 
as  a discipline  in  humility,  or  as  a period  of 
sequestered  self- preparation  for  the  great  office 
afterwards  laid  upon  him,  or  for  what  other  reason 
I know  not,  he  was  suddenly  deputed  to  the  petty 
colony  of  jungle  Christians  on  the  river-bank. 
But  if  the  Company  of  Jesus  sometimes  appears 

E 


5° 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


to  the  careless  onlooker  to  misdirect  force,  its 
sons  seldom  fail  to  justify  its  action.  In  six  years 
Father  Jerome  changed  the  whole  spiritual  life  of 
that  isolated  community. 

He  had  given  shelter  during  a famine  to  a couple 
of  hundred  orphans,  baptizing  them  promptly, 
and  feeding  them,  educating  them,  and  bringing 
them  up  to  husbandry  or  handicrafts,  with  the 
help  of  the  modest  rupee  a month  which  the 
Government  allowed  per  head  for  their  main- 
tenance. By  the  labour  of  their  willing  boyish 
hands  he  built  a church.  The  Factory  granted 
a plot  of  arid  ground  on  the  high  river-bank : 
one  part  of  which  he  turned  into  a brickfield,  while 
the  other  served  as  a site.  The  hill  Raja,  with 
Hindu  benevolence  to  religious  men  of  whatever 
faith,  allowed  as  much  timber  from  the  forest  as 
was  wanted  for  the  rafters  and  porch.  At  the 
head  of  his  juvenile  band  the  Jesuit  Father  ex- 
plored the  torrent  beds  and  gullies,  and  collected 
a store  of  the  nodular  limestone  which  makes 
such  capital  mortar.  In  five  years,  unaided  by 
a single  grown-up  artisan,  he  had  erected  a church 
of  no  mean  proportions,  with  a Virgin  in  blue 


THE  PARTING  OF  THE  PEOPLE  5 1 

and  gold  in  the  niche  of  the  belfry,  conspicuous 
for  miles  up  and  down  the  long  river  reach.  The 
brickfield  had  been  turned  into  the  Priest’s  Tank, 
well  stocked  with  fish,  and  yielding  enough  water 
to  keep  green  a little  graveyard. 

But  with  his  prosperity  came  sorrow.  For 
the  Scottish  firm  in  Calcutta,  scandalized  at  its 
villagers  being  turned  again  into  Papists,  sought 
the  help  of  the  Old  Missionary  of  the  District, 
and  persuaded  him  to  send  a more  active  Pro- 
testant pastor  to  take  charge  of  the  strayed  flock. 

‘ Trafalgar  ’ Douglas  interfered  unwillingly,  for  he 
privately  believed  that  the  change  had  been  on 
the  whole  for  good.  But  having  consented,  he 
gave  his  best  man  to  the  work — the  young  Brah- 
man preacher  whose  eloquence  had  struck  me  at 
the  missionary  encampment  in  the  forest  glade. 

For  a time  his  fresh  enthusiasm  carried  every- 
thing before  it,  and  when  the  failing  health  of  Mr. 
Douglas  led  to  the  youth’s  recall  to  headquarters, 
he  left  the  weaving  settlement  on  the  river-bank 
divided  into  two  religious  parties.  His  successor, 
a native  preacher  of  lower  caste,  quarrelled  with 
the  Jesuit  priest.  The  result  was  a series  of  petty 
E 2 


52 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


disturbances,  ending  in  a bloody  affray  on  Easter 
morning  when  both  factions  asserted  with  clubs 
and  rusty  spears  their  claim  of  priority  to  fire  off 
the  three  old  cannon. 

On  our  first  evening  at  the  Factory  the  Catholic 
clergyman,  as  the  only  other  European  in  the 
place,  was  duly  invited  to  dinner.  During  our 
progress  through  the  preserved  salmon  and  tinned 
entrees , the  gram-fed  mutton,  and  the  fattened 
turkey  and  Yorkshire  ham,  which  the  hospitable 
planter  lavished  on  the  long-drawn-out  repast, 
Father  Jerome  attracted  us  by  an  extreme  gentle- 
ness of  manner,  and  by  his  varied  and  interesting 
talk.  One  felt  in  Europe  again,  notwithstand- 
ing the  punka  waving  overhead.  He  gave  the 
impression  of  a penetrating  intelligence,  but  of 
a diffident  nature— a self-contained  observer  who 
had  come  in  contact  with  historical  personages 
of  our  day,  but  who  seemed  stranded  in  middle 
life,  a resigned  and  lonely  man. 

The  little  girl,  who  now  emerged  from  her 
evening  sleep,  hungry  and  very  wide  awake, 
was  quickly  won  by  his  half-shy  friendliness 
and  worn,  delicate  face.  The  Old  Missionary 


THE  PARTING  OF  THE  PEOPLE  53 

watched  him  with  grave  Scottish  courtesy  from 
under  his  sagacious  white  eyebrows,  but  was  too 
tired  at  first  to  take  part  in  the  conversation. 
After  dinner  the  clergymen  retired  with  their 
cheroots  to  the  veranda,  where  the  child  fell 
fast  asleep  again  on  her  father’s  shoulder,  until 
her  nurse  carried  her  off.  The  planter,  perhaps 
thinking  that  his  reverend  guests  might  learn 
to  know  each  other  more  easily  without  the 
presence  of  third  parties,  engaged  me  in  a game 
of  Nap.  Somewhat  to  my  surprise,  the  two 
padres  were  still  in  deep  converse  in  the  moon- 
lit veranda  overhanging  the  river  when  I went 
to  bed. 

Next  morning  the  police  inspector  came  to 
me  at  daybreak,  with  his  official  entries  of  what 
had  been  going  on  in  the  village  during  the 
past  month.  They  showed  that  things  were  worse 
than  I supposed,  and  that  the  religious  affray 
was  the  outcome  of  deeper  causes  of  disturb- 
ance. The  truth  is  that  the  people  had  outgrown 
the  village  lands.  As  long  as  the  silk  Factory 
prospered,  the  high  profits  of  the  mulberry 
cultivation  kept  them  all  in  tolerable  comfort. 


54 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


But  the  keener  competition  of  Italy  and  France 
was  beginning  to  tell  on  the  silk  production  of 
Bengal,  and  many  of  the  mulberry  fields  had 
been  ploughed  up  for  the  less  lucrative  rice-crop. 
The  old  families  of  the  hamlet,  who  still  clung 
to  their  mulberry  cultivation,  were  for  the  most 
part  Roman  Catholics — the  descendants  of  the 
original  weaving  settlement  in  the  days  of  the 
East  India  Company.  The  poorer  rice-growers 
were  generally  Protestants,  and  they  bitterly 
complained  that  the  mulberry  enclosures,  on  the 
plea  of  the  former  village  custom,  monopolized 
the  water-supply  of  the  hamlet. 

Before  the  Easter  riot  over  the  three  old  guns, 
there  had  been  a dozen  fights  about  cutting  the 
irrigation  channels.  The  planter,  a keen  sports- 
man and  a capital  fellow  but  withal  a cautious 
Edinburgh  man,  who  represented  the  Calcutta 
firm,  had  done  his  best  to  keep  things  quiet. 
He  prudently  stood  aloof,  however,  as  soon  as 
the  quarrel  took  a religious  turn. 

I was  sitting  in  a puzzled  mood,  with  the 
police  day-book  and  village  map  before  me,  when 
the  Missionary  tapped  on  the  open  door  and 


THE  PARTING  OF  THE  PEOPLE  55 

asked  if  I could  spare  a lew  minutes.  I gladly- 
begged  him  to  come  in,  as  a man  in  perplexity 
welcomes  any  diversion  which  postpones  the 
process  of  making  up  his  mind.  But  instead  of 
accepting  the  proffered  chair,  my  old  friend  stood 
erect  on  the  other  side  of  the  writing-table,  and 
without  preface  said  : — 

4 Mr.  Ormiston,  I am  come  to  make  a request. 
I communed  long  with  Mr.  Jerome  last  night,  and 
I found  him  a righteous  man.  And  this  morning 
in  my  prayers  the  words  were  borne  upon  me : 
“ Let  there  be  no  strife,  I pray  thee,  between  me 
and  thee,  and  between  my  herdmen  and  thy 
herdmen ; for  we  be  brethren.  Is  not  the  whole 
land  before  thee  ? Separate  thyself,  I pray  thee, 
from  me.  If  thou  wilt  take  the  left  hand,  then 
I will  go  to  the  right ; or  if  thou  depart  to  the 
right  hand,  then  I will  go  to  the  left.”  I ask  you, 
Mr.  Ormiston,  not  to  deal  with  this  matter,  but 
to  leave  it  to  him  and  me.’ 

I felt  rather  sceptical  about  settling  a case, 
clearly  provided  for  by  the  Code  of  Criminal 
Procedure,  on  the  basis  of  texts  out  of  Genesis ; 
so  I replied  : — 


56  THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 

‘ But,  Mr.  Douglas,  what  if  you  cannot  agree  ? ’ 

‘ Then,  sir,  God’s  will  be  done.  But  I ask  you 
to  remember  that  for  forty  years  my  people  have 
never  been  seen  in  the  police  courts,  and  I trust, 
with  God’s  help,  that  they  will  not  be  seen  there 
in  my  old  age.’ 

I reflected  for  a minute,  with  a growing  sense 
of  the  unlikelihood  of  his  success  but  also  with 
a growing  respect  and  pity  for  the  brave  old  man, 
before  answering: — 

‘ Very  well,  Mr.  Douglas.  I can  take  no  cogni- 
zance of  your  private  arrangements  with  Father 
Jerome;  but  I have  some  business  in  the  hill- 
country,  and  I shall  go  away  for  three  days. 
When  I come  back,  if  everything  is  settled,  well 
and  good.  If  not,  I must  do  what  seems  needful.’ 

The  Old  Missionary  bowed  in  silence,  although 
his  lips  moved.  I only  realized  by  the  trembling 
of  his  thin  long  fingers,  which  had  unconsciously 
clasped  the  edge  of  the  table,  that  an  interview 
which  was  to  me  merely  an  ordinary  matter 
of  business,  had  been  to  him  a great  strain  and 
a great  relief. 

I went  out  at  once  into  the  Factory  enclosure, 


THE  PARTING  OF  THE  PEOPLE  57 

where  the  villagers  were  sitting  under  trees  waiting 
to  pay  their  respects  to  the  newly  arrived  magis- 
trate. After  the  customary  civilities,  I told  them 
that  I had  heard  of  their  misdeeds,  and  called  on 
each  faction  to  point  out  five  ringleaders  on  the 
other  side.  When  the  ten  stood  before  me,  and 
I had  learned  from  the  police  inspector  that  they 
were  really  the  chief  disturbers,  I briefly  told 
them  that  I was  going  for  three  days  into  the 
hill-country,  and  on  my  return  would  listen  to 
their  complaints  on  the  spot.  Meanwhile,  if  any 
affray  took  place,  the  police  would  march  those 
ten  men,  together  with  any  others  engaged,  across 
the  district  to  be  tried  at  my  headquarters’  Court. 
Needless  to  say,  they  assured  me  that  nothing 
would  happen  to  bring  such  shame  on  the  village. 
So  with  a doubtful  mind,  yet  not  without  a half 
hope  that  I had  done  a fair  morning’s  work, 
I came  in  out  of  the  sun  for  a hasty  bath  before 
breakfast  at  eleven  o’clock. 

During  that  ample  meal,  which  the  Bengal 
planter  knows  how  to  augment  into  a high 
function  of  his  hospitable  day,  my  host  offered 
to  ride  an  afternoon’s  march  with  me  into  the 


58  THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 

forest.  Within  an  hour  his  trackers  had  started 
to  see  if  they  could  get  news  of  game,  and 
a joyful  posse  comitatus  of  the  low  castes  in  the 
village  was  assembling  on  the  chance  of  sport 
a score  of  miles  off  next  morning.  I sent  on 
a mounted  orderly  to  warn  the  hill  Raja  that 
I would  reach  his  fort  the  following  evening,  to 
look  into  the  quarrel  between  him  and  his  fief- 
holders.  We  rode  five -and -twenty  miles  in  the  cool 
of  the  afternoon,  slept  a few  hours  under  a tree, 
and  were  lucky  enough  to  cut  off  a tiger  in  a gully 
on  his  way  back  from  his  drink  before  sunrise  to 
his  higher  retreats.  Then  we  drew  the  jungle, 
and  the  beaters  returned  home  rejoicing  in  four 
deer,  a leopardess,  and  a motley  bag  of  small 
game.  The  planter  galloped  home  to  the  Factory 
in  time  for  his  midday  breakfast,  and  I went  on 
with  some  of  my  people  to  the  Raja’s  fort. 

The  business  there  easily  arranged  itself.  The 
planter,  finding  the  silk  Factory  growing  less  pro- 
fitable, had  invented  a trade  in  sal-wood  sleepers 
which  he  floated  down  the  river  to  the  railway 
during  the  rains.  The  feud  between  the  Raja 
and  his  under-holders,  although  complicated  by 


THE  PARTING  OF  THE  PEOPLE  59 

armed  encounters  between  their  retainers  and 
by  mutual  reprisals  in  forest-burning-,  was  really 
a question  of  the  fair  division  among  them  of 
the  new  and  unforeseen  value  of  their  woods. 
As  the  tract  lay  on  the  Non-Regulation  frontier 
of  the  District  and  the  disputants  were  simple 
hill-chiefs,  they  had  a long  day’s  inconsequential 
wrangle  and,  when  well  tired  out,  harmoniously 
accepted  my  award.  Their  return  to  friendship 
was  celebrated  by  a big  shoot  in  the  jungle,  with 
much  pomp  of  elephants  in  tinsel  trappings  and 
of  albino-eyed  horses  with  pink  tails,  but  too 
noisy  for  serious  sport.  On  the  evening  of  the 
third  day  I returned  to  the  Factory. 

‘ Glad  to  see  you  back,’  said  the  planter,  as 
I dismounted.  4 But  you  have  missed  a curious 
sight.  Since  you  left  they  have  been  holding 
a sort  of  General  Assembly  of  the  Kirk,  with  the 
villagers  swarming  about  in  their  best  clothes, 
like  the  country  ministers  and  elders  on  the  Edin- 
burgh Mound  in  the  fourth  week  of  May.  The 
upshot  of  it  all  was  that  either  the  Protestants 
or  the  Catholics  must  hive  off;  but  which  were 
to  go  ? The  Catholics  had  their  mulberry  gardens 


6o 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


and  their  new  church ; the  Protestants  had  their 
rice-fields  and  most  of  the  village  cattle.  Father 
Jerome  came  out  strong.  He  got  his  people  into 
the  church  and  kept  them  there  till  he  worked 
them  up  to  the  pitch  of  buying  out  the  others. 
The  fat  grain  merchant  brought  a bag  of  rupees, 
the  mulberry-growers  dug  up  their  hordes  of  coin, 
and  the  women  threw  their  ornaments  in  a heap 
before  the  altar.  I had  no  idea  there  was  such 
a weight  of  bangles  in  the  village.  Then  they 
held  a council  of  five,  the  padres  sitting  with  them, 
and  valued  the  rice-growers’  holdings.  They  were 
at  it  pretty  well  for  two  days  and  two  nights,  and 
this  morning  everything  was  settled,  and  the  sealed 
bags  of  silver  were  locked  up  for  safe-keeping  in 
my  treasury  until  your  arrival.’ 

1 How  did  Mr.  Douglas  manage  to  get  the 
Protestants  to  agree  to  move  ? ’ 

‘ That  old  man  is  marvellous ! Jerome’s  word 
was  law  with  his  own  people.  But  Douglas  is 
almost  a stranger  here,  and  when  the  Protestant 
rice-growers  saw  their  way  to  a good  bargain  they 
stood  out  for  higher  terms.  The  women,  too, 
raised  a lamentation  at  quitting  their  old  homes, 


THE  PARTING  OF  THE  PEOPLE 


6l 


where  they  have  not  had  one  full  meal  a day 
during  the  last  three  years.  Yesterday  everything 
seemed  hopeless.  But  I never  saw  a man  like 
Mr.  Douglas,  for  quietly  putting  down  his  will. 
He  seemed  to  speak  with  an  authority  they 
dared  not  resist.  I myself,  when  passing  the 
open  door  of  their  conventicle,  felt  half  afraid 
of  the  rigid  old  prophet,  with  his  set  face,  and 
white  hair,  and  lean  uplifted  arm,  as  he  stood 
haranguing  them.’ 

‘ Still,  they  were  within  their  rights  to  refuse 
to  move.’ 

1 That  may  be.  All  I know  is,  that  by  yester- 
day afternoon  he  had  won  the  best  of  the  Pro- 
testants to  his  views.  They  gradually  showed  the 
rest  what  fools  they  would  be  to  lose  what  is  really 
a very  good  chance.  To  the  jungle  herdsmen 
with  cattle  but  no  holdings,  and  to  the  landless 
labourers,  Mr.  Douglas  promised  a sum  for  each 
family,  enough  to  set  up  a hut  and  buy  a plough. 
I hope  the  old  gentleman  can  afford  it,  for  he 
seems  to  have  no  ready  cash,  and  has  given  me 
a power  of  attorney  to  sell  out  his  Government 
paper  in  Calcutta.  In  the  end  the  malcontents 


62 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


had  to  give  in — their  breath  fairly  squeezed  out 
of  them  between  the  sensible  people  who  were 
satisfied  with  a fair  offer,  and  the  herdsmen  and 
landless  families  who  saw  their  chance  of  bettering 
themselves  in  life.’ 

‘ But  where  are  they  to  get  the  land  ? It  needs 
a long  purse  to  break  up  old  forest.’ 

‘ That’s  true,  and  if  they  had  to  take  in  the 
jungle  on  this  side  of  the  river,  they  would  make 
a poor  thing  of  it.  But  we  have  three  villages 
on  the  western  bank,  within  the  old  Factory  grant, 
which  were  demolished  by  wild  elephants  fifty 
years  ago.  The  elephants  have  disappeared  off 
the  face  of  the  earth  since  the  road  was  made 
through  the  hill- country.  But  as  long  as  the 
mulberries  and  silk-worms  paid  well,  it  was  not 
worth  our  while  to  resettle  those  outlying  villages. 
When  the  people  had  used  up  the  pasture-lands 
on  this  side  of  the  river  for  growing  rice,  they 
began  to  resort  to  the  other  bank  for  feeding 
their  buffaloes.  The  Factory  took  care  however 
to  prevent  any  grazing  rights  growing  up,  so  that 
the  land  is  still  waiting  to  be  settled  for  cultivation. 
Now  is  my  chance  to  re- people  the  deserted 


THE  PARTING  OF  THE  PEOPLE  63 

villages,  and  of  course  the  Factory  gives  the  seed 
gratis  for  the  first  year,  and  the  land  during  the 
next  two  years  free  of  rent.’ 

‘ And  how  about  the  dispute  and  the  three 
cannon  ? ’ 

1 Oh,  that  was  the  least  part  of  the  business. 
Luckily  neither  side  had  lodged  a complaint,  so 
the  police  need  not  take  notice  of  a few  broken 
heads  which  are  now  mended,  unless  they  get 
orders  to  do  so.  Last  night  the  two  factions 
joined  in  a village  feast  of  friendship  and  farewell. 
Poor  Jerome,  who  has  never  had  a rupee  beyond 
his  daily  food  since  he  came  here,  somehow  pro- 
duced two  goats.  Mr.  Douglas  asked  me  for 
a sheep,  and  the  row  and  drum-beating  went  on 
to  the  small  hours.  This  morning  the  headmen 
of  both  sides  came  and  begged  the  old  cannon 
from  me.  One,  they  set  up  as  a pillar  on  this 
bank ; another  they  have  buried  in  the  sand 
halfway  across ; and  the  third  is  to  be  posted 
on  the  opposite  bank  at  the  spot  where  the  new 
village  will  be  built.  Some  mat  huts  have  already 
been  put  up,  and  Mr.  Douglas  started  with  his 
people  an  hour  ago  to  mark  out  the  land,  so  that 


64 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


they  may  begin  ploughing  as  soon  as  the  first 
rain  comes.’ 

As  he  was  speaking,  we  reached  the  veranda 
looking  down  on  the  river.  Father  Jerome  was 
leaning  over  the  balustrade  at  the  farther  corner, 
apparently  too  rapt  in  his  own  thoughts  to  observe 
our  arrival.  Halfway  across,  a long  line  of  men 
and  women  and  cattle  were  moving  slowly  westward 
through  the  heavy  sand : the  tall  form  of  the  Old 
Missionary  in  front,  hand  in  hand  with  his  little 
girl.  When  they  came  to  the  shallow  channel,  we 
saw  a group  run  forward  and  try  to  raise  him  up, 
in  order  to  carry  him  over.  Rut  he  refused,  and 
lifting  his  child  in  his  arms,  stepped  into  the 
stream.  As  he  reached  the  middle,  the  rays  of 
the  setting  sun  flashed  across  the  water  to  us, 
throwing  a glory  around  the  grand  gaunt  figure 
erect  under  its  burden.  The  pilgrim  band  slowly 
filed  through  what  seemed  a river  of  light. 

When  their  feet  touched  the  dry  expanse  of  sand 
on  the  other  side,  they  raised  the  Evening  Hymn 
to  a plaintive  Bengali  air.  Then  a little  later  the 
whole  multitude  burst  forth  with  the  triumphant 
thanksgiving  of  the  Old  Hundredth  Psalm,  as  they 


THE  PARTING  OF  THE  PEOPLE  65 

began  to  ascend  the  steep  distant  bank.  We 
silently  watched  the  last  of  them  disappear  under 
the  jungle  which  fringed  its  high  ridge,  already 
fading  into  the  night.  On  turning  round  I saw 
Father  Jerome  rising  from  his  knees  at  the  further 
end  of  the  veranda.  His  eyes  were  filled  with 
tears. 


F 


[ 66  ] 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  GOING  DOWN  OF  THE  SUN 

That  hot  weather  was  one  of  the  hottest  and 
happiest  which  I spent  in  India.  It  was  my  first 
year  in  independent  charge  of  a District,  with  the 
endless  interests  of  the  position  intensified  by 
youth,  and  still  unblunted  by  wont.  It  was  passed 
too  in  close  intimacy  with  a man  marked  out  by 
his  talents  for  a brilliant  career,  and  by  the  sweet- 
ness of  his  nature  for  intimate  and  enduring  friend- 
ship. 

Arthur  Ayliffe  had  held  his  treasury  and  jail  in 
1857  with  eighty  policemen  and  the  half-dozen 
sporting  rifles  of  his  District  staff  against  three 
successive  bands  of  mutineers,  each  of  whom  out- 
numbered his  little  force  tenfold.  A Companion- 
ship of  the  Bath  and  quick  promotion  were  his  well- 
earned  rewards.  While  still  a young  magistrate 
he  found  himself  appointed  Commissioner  of  the 


THE  GOING  DOWN  OF  THE  SUN  67 

six  western  Districts  of  the  Lower  Ganges,  stretch- 
ing from  the  swamps  of  the  Hugh  to  the  forests 
and  mountains  which  separate  Bengal  from  the 
Central  Provinces.  The  population  of  this  wide 
tract  amounted  to  about  seven  millions — a great 
diversity  of  races,  with  the  astute  Hindu  at  the 
one  end  and  the  primitive  aboriginal  tribes  at 
the  other. 

During  several  years  Ayliffe  won  golden  opinions 
by  calming  down  the  excitement  which  a local 
rising  of  the  hill  people  in  1855  left  behind.  But 
on  the  passing  of  the  famous  series  of  Codes, 
the  Calcutta  Secretariat  worked  itself  into  a fer- 
vour for  legal  symmetry  against  which  he  set 
his  face.  In  one  of  his  protests  against  applying 
a uniform  procedure  to  races  in  widely  different 
stages  of  human  society,  he  was  held  to  have  gone 
be3^ond  the  decorous  limits  of  official  remonstrance. 
No  public  scandal  followed.  The  too  outspoken 
Commissioner  merely  found  it  expedient  to  take 
furlough.  On  his  return  he  was  gazetted  to  the 
judgeship  of  the  District  in  which  I was  then 
serving — one  of  the  six  formerly  in  his  charge. 

He  swallowed  the  pill  in  silence.  In  those  days 
F 2 


68 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


a District  judgeship,  which  is  now  rightly  recog- 
nized as  an  important  post  demanding  a special 
training  and  no  mean  capacity,  was  held  in  small 
esteem.  The  District  judges  were  for  the  most 
part  heavy  elderly  gentlemen,  who  had  not  made 
their  mark  in  the  more  active  branches  of  the 
administration.  To  this  rule  there  were  indeed 
brilliant  exceptions.  But  generally  speaking,  the 
abler  men  regarded  the  office  as  an  unavoidable 
halt  in  their  promotion  from  Magistrate  of  a Dis- 
trict to  Commissioner  of  a Division  ; or  as  a loctis 
penitentiae  for  a Commissioner  who  had  had 
a difference  with  the  Government,  or  made  a 
mistake.  In  Ayliffe’s  case  the  Service  felt  some 
indignation,  as  the  Government  soon  afterwards 
found  itself  constrained  to  relax  the  uniformity 
of  the  Codes  to  which  he  was  sacrificed.  But 
the  sympathy  of  his  brother  officers  fell  flat, 
Ayliffe  himself  seeming  quite  content  with  the 
change.  He  went  to  work  on  his  judicial  duties 
as  keenly  as  if  he  had  given  up  any  thought  of 
higher  advancement,  save  the  humdrum  promotion 
by  seniority  to  the  Supreme  Court. 

The  judge's  house  was  an  imposing  white  edifice, 


THE  GOING  DOWN  OF  THE  SUN  69 

with  Doric  pillared  verandas  and  a flat  roof,  in  the 
middle  of  an  extensive  park  dotted  with  ancient 
trees.  A long  avenue  led  across  the  parched  sward 
to  the  judge’s  garden,  which  was  separated  from 
the  main  park  by  a public  road.  This  garden,  the 
work  of  a line  of  judges  during  a hundred  years, 
was  the  one  spot  always  green  in  our  arid  station. 

In  the  good  old  days  of  John  Company, 
when  the  District  officers  freely  used  jail  labour, 
gangs  of  prisoners  had  excavated  in  the  judge’s 
garden  a broad  winding  piece  of  water  which 
expanded  almost  to  the  dignity  of  a lake.  Its 
cool  depths  and  shady  margin  formed  a rustic 
swimming-bath  of  singular  beauty.  Artificial  hol- 
lows supplied  moist  beds  for  a luxuriance  of  gay 
flowers,  which  were  screened  from  the  hot  winds 
by  blossoming  shrubs  and  forest  trees.  The  mud 
delved  out  for  the  lake  eighty  years  ago  had  been 
erected  into  a little  hill,  now  clothed  with  an 
orange-grove  known  as  The  Mount,  and  somewhat 
suggesting  the  mound  in  New  College  garden 
at  Oxford.  From  the  arbour  on  its  summit  one 
looked  across  the  undulating  country  to  where 
the  sun  set  among  the  western  hills.  The  further 


7° 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


end  of  the  spacious  garden  was  walled  off  for 
the  station  grave-yard — the  first  English  grave 
having  been  dug  for  the  little  daughter  of  a judge 
at  the  end  of  the  last  century. 

In  our  small  station  each  officer  had  a house 
assigned  to  him  by  custom.  The  judge’s  house, 
the  magistrate’s  house,  and  the  assistant’s  bungalow, 
were  from  time  immemorial  rented  by  a succession 
of  the  officers  whose  names  they  bore.  Indeed, 
they  appear  even  in  the  survey  maps  under 
those  unchangeable  designations.  My  dwelling, 
the  magistrate’s  house,  had  fallen  into  disrepair ; 
and  that  year  the  landlord,  on  commencing  the 
annual  patching  up,  found  the  beams  which  sup- 
ported the  heavy  flat  roof  completely  tunnelled 
out  by  white  ants.  This  meant  four  months  in 
the  hands  of  workmen,  and  the  judge  kindly 
offered  me  quarters  during  the  slow  process  of 
re-roofing.  It  was  not  considered  quite  regular 
for  the  judge  and  magistrate  to  live  together,  as 
the  executive  and  judicial  powers  in  a District  at 
that  time  often  came  into  collision.  But  no  one 
else  had  a house  with  sufficient  spare  room  to  take 
me  in,  so  my  hens  and  ducks  and  guinea-fowls 


THE  GOING  DOWN  OF  THE  SUN  71 

were  driven  over  to  Ayliffe’s  poultry-yard,  and 
I took  up  my  abode  with  my  friend. 

It  was  altogether  a bachelor  station.  Not  one  of 
the  three  civilians  was  a married  man,  the  doctor 
was  a widower,  and  the  wife  of  the  district  super- 
intendent of  police  had  gone  to  England  with  her 
children.  The  hot  winds  set  in  like  a consuming 
fire.  The  large  double  doors  which  form  the 
windows  of  an  Anglo-Indian  house  stood  open  all 
night,  and  were  shut  up  tight  in  the  early  morning ; 
the  heavy  Venetian  frames  outside  the  glass  doors 
trying  in  vain  to  hermetically  seal  the  interior 
from  the  glare  and  heat.  We  had  to  start  for  our 
gallop  by  5 A.M.,  or  not  get  it  at  all  except  at  the 
risk  of  sunstroke.  The  public  offices  opened  at 
seven,  and  closed  for  the  day  at  noon.  Then 
each  man  drove  swiftly  through  the  furnace  of 
shimmering  air  to  his  darkened  and  silent  home. 

A lingering  bath  and  a languid  breakfast 
brought  the  hot  hours  to  one  o’clock.  The  slow 
combustion  of  the  suffocating  afternoon  was  endured 
somehow  under  the  punka,  with  the  help  of  the 
endless  bundles  of  papers  in  one’s  office-box,  read 
by  chance  rays  which  fiercely  forced  an  entrance 


72 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


through  every  chink  in  the  double  doors  of 
glass  and  wood.  About  six,  we  all  met  at  the 
raquette  court,  whose  high  wall  by  that  time  cast 
a sufficient  shadow.  A couple  of  four-handed 
games  (the  doctor  was  grown  too  stout  to  play) 
left  us  streaming  at  every  pore,  and  marking  at 
each  step  a damp  foot- print  through  our  white 
canvas  shoes  on  the  pavement.  Then  the  deli- 
cious plunge  in  the  swimming-bath  in  the  judge’s 
garden ! the  one  moment  of  freshness  looked 
forward  to  throughout  the  exhausting  day.  A 
cheroot  and  an  iced  drink,  as  we  lay  fanned 
by  the  servants  on  long  chairs  at  the  top  of  The 
Mount — and  presently,  almost  in  a minute,  the 
sun  had  once  more  hidden  his  malignant  face,  and 
the  blinding  glare  of  day  gave  place  to  the  stifling 
stillness  of  night. 

Our  house  entertained  on  two  evenings  a week 
and  we  usually  dined  out  two  other  evenings,  with 
whist  afterwards,  and  a modest  pool  at  loo  on 
Saturday  nights  to  afford  vent  to  the  doctor’s  Irish 
energies.  Sometimes  we  passed  a domestic  edict 
not  to  dine  till  the  thermometer  fell  to  ninety-five 
degrees,  and  waited  till  past  nine  o’clock  without 


THE  GOING  DOWN  OF  THE  SUN  73 

seeing'  the  mercury  sink  to  that  point.  But  the 
life  was  full  of  compensations.  In  the  first  place, 
an  Englishman  enjoys  capital  health  in  the  hot 
weather,  if  still  young  and  not  afraid  of  exercise, 
and  with  plenty  of  work.  I was  living,  more- 
over, with  perhaps  the  most  charming  and  accom- 
plished man  in  the  Service.  Ayliffe’s  resources  of 
companionship  were  inexhaustible.  His  unfailing 
cheerfulness  and  sweet  courtesy  of  manner  were 
in  themselves  sufficiently  pleasant.  But  it  was 
rather  his  quick  and  genuine  sympathy  with  one’s 
own  small  efforts  and  interests  that  endeared  him 
in  daily  life.  One  somehow  felt,  also,  in  the 
presence  of  a reserve  of  force. 

His  many-coloured  but  pithy  talk  made  the 
breakfast  cheroot  a delightful  episode  in  the  long 
hot  day.  After  dinner,  when  we  were  alone  and 
not  reading  or  playing  chess,  we  had  our  cane 
chairs  taken  up  to  the  flat  roof.  There,  in  the 
starlight,  he  would  pour  forth  those  stores  of 
incisive  observation  which  have  since  earned  for 
him  a foremost  place  among  Indian  Governors 
and  thinkers  of  our  day.  On  one  evening  he 
was  the  experienced  and  sagacious  administrator, 


74 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


full  of  the  problems  of  Indian  rule.  On  another, 
he  was  the  philosopher  sitting-  reflective  on  the 
river-bank,  and  watching-  with  calm  but  friendly 
eyes  the  stream  of  ancient  races  and  religions  as 
it  flowed  past. 

The  story  of  the  Missionary’s  new  peasant 
settlement  interested  Aylifife,  and  led  to  an  intimacy 
between  the  two  men.  Indeed,  the  character  of 
‘Trafalgar’  Douglas  appealed  alike  to  the  prac- 
tical and  the  speculative  side  of  Ayliffe’s  nature. 
The  Old  Missionary  had  reached  a serene  region 
beyond  the  perturbations  of  dogma.  We  were 
to  find,  too,  during  that  hot  weather,  that  his  was 
a calm  of  soul  which  no  earthly  agitation  could 
ruffle — neither  the  frustration  of  long-cherished 
hopes,  nor  the  bitterness  of  desertion,  nor  sharp 
physical  pain.  For,  as  the  scorching  end  of  April 
melted  into  a fiery  May,  a great  calamity  befell 
our  aged  friend.  The  glare  and  hot  winds  which 
he  faced  while  portioning  out  the  new  village 
lands  must  have  hastened  the  failure  of  eyesight 
that  had  been  going  on  for  several  years.  The 
first  day  I looked  in  at  his  cottage  after  his  return, 
I found  him  at  his  library  table,  the  manuscript 


THE  GOING  DOWN  OF  THE  SUN  75 

of  his  beloved  dictionary  spread  before  him,  and 
his  hand  resting  on  the  head  of  his  little  daughter 
who  was  sitting  on  a low  stool  by  his  side. 

‘ It  all  seems  very  faint  to  me,’  he  said,  with  an 
air  of  pained  perplexity ; ‘ can  the  ink  have  faded 
so  soon  ? ’ 

I glanced  at  the  written  slips,  neatly  pasted  by 
the  zealous  girlish  fingers  on  the  sheets  of  yellow 
paper.  They  read  as  clear  as  before.  The  little 
daughter  looked  up  wistfully  at  me  for  a moment, 
then  threw  her  arms  round  her  father’s  neck,  con- 
vulsively kissing  his  dimmed  eyes,  and  choking 
with  pent-up  sobs. 

Our  good  doctor  attended  him  with  an  anxious 
kindness  that  tried,  perhaps  not  altogether  in  vain, 
to  make  up  for  his  lack  of  ophthalmic  science.  He 
told  us  from  the  first,  however,  that,  so  far  as  he 
understood  the  case,  it  was  a hopeless  one  — 
atrophy  of  the  nerves  of  vision.  The  judge,  on 
the  pretext  of  a rather  stubborn  ear-ache  caught 
while  sleeping  close  under  the  punka,  sent  for  a 
specialist  from  Calcutta.  The  famous  surgeon, 
after  doing  what  was  needful  for  Ayliffe,  made  a 
careful  examination  of  the  Missionary’s  eyes.  His 


76 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


report  confirmed  our  worst  fears.  By  that  time 
Mr.  Douglas  could  only  distinguish  day  from  night, 
or  a bright  moving  flame,  and  the  professor  in- 
formed us  that  no  change  for  the  better  must  be 
hoped  for.  Next  morning  Ayliffe  gently  told  the 
truth  to  the  old  man. 

In  the  afternoon  I went  to  sit  with  our  stricken 
friend.  A dust  storm,  bringing  its  torrents  of  rain, 
had  cooled  the  air,  but  the  sun  had  broken  out 
again  with  an  insufferable  radiance.  The  Old 
Missionary  was  sitting  as  before  at  his  table, 
which,  however,  had  been  drawn  close  to  the 
window.  One  of  his  hands  played  in  his  little 
girl’s  hair,  with  the  other  he  turned  from  time 
to  time  the  written  sheets  before  him,  which  he 
was  never  again  to  see.  But  on  his  face  rested 
a perfect  serenity,  and  his  eyes,  in  which  no  out- 
ward change  could  be  discerned,  turned  to  me  with 
their  old  beam  of  benevolent  welcome.  As  I looked 
at  him  there,  surrounded  by  the  great  unfinished 
work  of  his  life,  the  work  which  no  man  but  him- 
self could  complete,  and  from  which  he  was  now 
shut  out  for  ever,  I felt  as  if  any  commonplace  of 
consolation  that  I could  offer  would  strangle  me 


THE  GOING  DOWN  OF  THE  SUN  77 

in  the  utterance.  The  double  windows,  strangely 
enough  on  such  a glaring  afternoon,  had  been 
thrown  wide  open.  I sat  for  some  moments  in 
silence  with  a heart  too  full  for  speech,  while  he 
looked  mildly  out  into  the  intolerable  sunshine. 

I could  only  press  his  hand  and  stammer  some 
words  of  deepest  sorrow. 

‘ Ah,  my  dear  young  friend,’  he  said  with  a 
gentle  smile,  ‘ you  do  not  know  how  much  remains 
to  me.  I thank  my  merciful  Maker,’  he  continued, 
unconsciously  raising  his  sightless  eyes  to  heaven, 
‘ since  He  has  been  pleased  to  hide  from  me  the 
face  of  man,  and  all  His  lesser  creatures,  that  He 
has  graciously  left  me  His  first  work  of  creation, 
His  beautiful  gift  of  light.’ 

We  soon  found  that  this  was  no  momentary 
exaltation  of  the  mind,  but  a fixed  and  calm  con- 
tent. At  first  we  hoped  that,  with  the  willing  help 
of  Ayton  the  assistant  magistrate  (and  a Boden 
Scholar,  as  I have  mentioned,  in  his  Oxford  days), 
the  dictionary  might  go  on.  Indeed,  Ayliffe  had 
a few  sheets  put  in  type  in  Calcutta.  On  their 
arrival  it  was  pathetic  to  see  the  delight  with  which 
the  venerable  scholar  passed  his  finger-tips  across 


78 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


their  smooth  surface,  and  then  across  the  rumpled 
coarse  pages  of  yellow  country  paper  on  which  the 
slips  of  the  separate  words  were  pasted.  But  a fort- 
night of  disappointing  effort  made  it  clear  that  their 
revision  involved  a knowledge  of  the  hill  language 
which  the  Old  Missionary  alone  possessed.  It  was 
a labour  altogether  beyond  the  rare  hours  of  leisure 
which  the  daily  grinding  at  the  official  mill-stones 
allowed  to  any  of  us.  The  Missionary  was  the  first 
to  come  to  this  conclusion,  and  he  begged  Ayliffe 
to  go  to  no  further  expense  in  printing. 

Then,  for  a time,  we  tried  to  avoid  all  reference 
to  the  matter.  But  evening  after  evening  we  found 
the  blind  white-haired  scholar  at  his  writing-table, 
in  the  fierce  glare  of  the  sinking  sun,  with  his  long 
silky  fingers  travelling  alternately  over  the  smooth 
proof-sheets  and  the  uneven  yellow  manuscript. 

By  degrees  he  made  it  easy  for  his  friends  to 
talk  on  the  subject.  He  had  peacefully  accepted 
the  fact  that  the  finishing  of  his  beloved  work  was 
not  for  him  in  this  world.  But  he  seemed  to  look 
on  its  completion  as  merely  delayed.  He  never 
suggested  any  means  for  carrying  it  out,  although 
every  now  and  then  there  came  to  the  surface  a 


THE  GOING  DOWN  OF  THE  SUN  79 

still  expectation  and  quiet  trust  that  the  work 
would  be  done.  One  evening  he  said  with  a 
smile : ‘ After  all,  I have  but  ploughed  up  a new 
field,  and  put  the  seed  in  the  furrows.  When  the 
harvest  is  ready,  the  Lord  will  send  the  reaper  into 
the  harvest.’ 

As  Ayliffe  and  I rode  home  afterwards,  I hap- 
pened to  comment  on  this  curious  confidence  in 
a fruition  which  now  seemed  so  hopeless. 

‘ Leave  Now,’  Ayliffe  quietly  answered — 

‘ Leave  Now  for  dogs  and  apes, 

Man  has  For-ever.’ 

‘ I wonder,’  I went  on,  ‘ if  that  clever  young 
Brahman  whom  I heard  preaching  in  the  forest 
will  be  of  any  use.  I hear  he  is  coming  in  from  the 
new  village  to  headquarters,  to  help  the  missionary 
in  his  current  duties.’ 

‘ If  the  Brahman  has  fibre  in  him,’  replied  Ayliffe, 
‘ he  may  be  the  prop  of  this  man’s  old  age.  Yet 
who  knows  ? A youth  who  starts  life  with  such  a 
wrench  away  from  the  order  of  things  around  him 
as  is  implied  by  conversion,  may  have  strange 
oscillations  before  he  reaches  true  equilibrium  or 
poise.  He  will  help  no  doubt  in  the  school  and 


8o 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


religious  services,  and  in  giving  out  medicines  to 
the  sick.  But  a task  like  the  dictionary  is  not 
to  be  accomplished  by  any  impulse  of  emotion : 
only  by  long  and  steadfast  labour.’ 

I am  afraid  that  the  sympathy  which  we  felt  for 
the  venerable  scholar,  on  the  break-down  of  his 
magnum  opus  when  so  near  completion,  has  some- 
what obscured  in  this  narrative  the  daily  routine 
of  his  life.  It  was  not  the  tradition  of  the  Service 
in  Lower  Bengal  to  take  too  vivid  an  interest  in 
details  of  mission  work.  A friendly  subscription 
which  compromised  no  one,  and  a few  kindly 
words  when  presiding  at  the  annual  distribution  of 
prizes  in  the  mission  school,  represented  our  con- 
nexion with  proselytizing  enterprise.  The  judge, 
as  the  senior  civilian,  read  prayers  officially  in  the 
Circuit  House  on  Sunday  afternoons : to  have 
attended  the  mission  church  would  have  struck  us 
as  an  odd,  and  indeed  almost  as  an  irregular  pro- 
ceeding. But  the  things  of  which  we  knew  so  little 
still  formed,  as  they  had  formed  for  forty  years, 
the  staple  work  of  the  Old  Missionary’s  day. 

In  the  early  morning  his  daughter  led  him  round 
the  dilapidated  fish-pond  to  the  little  chapel  on  the 


THE  GOING  DOWN  OF  THE  SUN 


8l 


opposite  side ; and  there  the  white  head,  erect 
above  the  desk,  repeated  from  memory  the  familiar 
Morning  Prayers  in  Bengali  to  a small  gathering 
of  the  mission  catechists,  a few  women,  and  some  of 
the  school  children.  From  the  chapel  he  went 
direct  to  the  adjoining  school-house.  The  pupils, 
of  whom  the  majority  were  non-Christians,  had 
already  assembled,  a hundred  and  thirty  strong,  in 
three  long  rooms  opening  one  into  the  other. 
When  Mr.  Douglas  stood  up  at  his  table  they  all 
joined  in  a Bengali  hymn,  followed  by  a short 
prayer  from  him  and  a chapter  of  the  Gospels.  The 
secular  work  of  the  day  then  began.  Mr.  Douglas 
had  always  aimed,  not  at  ambitious  standards  of 
instruction,  but  to  give  a really  useful  training 
to  his  people,  and  to  make  his  schools  inde- 
pendent of  outside  aid.  Children  of  every  faith 
were  welcome : the  clever  ones  rose  to  be  pupil- 
teachers  ; and  the  best  of  these  were  in  due  time 
drafted  into  a normal  class,  in  which  they  went 
through  a practical  course  as  schoolmasters. 

In  this  way  he  obtained  a highly  qualified  staff 
for  his  own  central  school.  Fie  was  also  enabled 
to  send  out  a constant  stream  of  men  on  whose 

G 


82 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


moral  character  and  intellectual  ability  he  could 
thoroughly  rely,  to  about  thirty  village  schools 
which  he  had  set  up  among  the  Christian  popu- 
lation throughout  the  District  and  in  the  hill 
country.  The  system  was  self-supporting.  The 
fees  in  the  central  school,  together  with  the  Govern- 
ment grant,  more  than  defrayed  its  expenses. 
The  elders  of  the  outlying  Christian  villages,  in 
which  a teacher  had  been  established,  levied 
a monthly  dole  in  money  and  rice  for  his  main- 
tenance. The  surplus  fees  from  the  central  station 
school  supplemented  these  allowances  in  the 
poorer  hamlets. 

The  Old  Missionary’s  custom  was  to  plant  out 
a teacher — who  was  usually  although  not  always 
a catechist  as  well — in  a backward  tract,  and  to 
maintain  him  until  he  gathered  together  a group 
of  pupils,  often  under  no  better  shelter  than 
a spreading  banian  tree.  By  degrees  the  villagers 
began  to  take  a pride  in  watching  their  children 
being  taught,  set  up  a mat  hut  for  a school-house, 
and  provided  for  the  subsistence  of  the  master. 
The  Missionary  then  withdrew  his  grant,  and 
applied  the  money  to  planting  out  a new  school 


THE  GOING  DOWN  OF  THE  SUN  83 

elsewhere.  He  held  that  education  should  not 
be  expected  to  pay  its  way,  at  starting-,  among 
people  who  have  never  known  its  value,  and 
that  this  was  a case  in  which  the  supply  must 
create  the  demand.  I believe  that  some  such 
words  of  his,  in  a conversation  which  he  held 
a quarter  of  a century  before  with  the  Governor- 
General  on  his  Excellency’s  progress  through 
the  District,  were  the  origin  of  Lord  Auckland’s 
similar  schools  for  backward  tracts. 

Notwithstanding  his  blindness,  the  venerable 
instructor  still  gave  two  hours  in  the  early 
morning  to  his  training  class  of  teachers,  each 
youth  in  which  was  to  him  not  only  a chosen 
pupil  but  a beloved  young  friend.  He  also  kept 
what  seemed,  for  so  gentle  a nature,  a marvel- 
lously firm  hand  on  the  general  discipline. 
Indeed,  under  his  sanction,  the  head-master  used 
the  rod  with  a freedom  unknown  in  the  neigh- 
bouring Government  school. 

One  morning,  as  he  paced  slowly  round  the 
shaded  margin  of  the  fish-pond  for  a little  exer- 
cise, leaning  on  my  arm,  with  the  hum  from  his 
school-house  filling  the  still  air,  I asked  why  he 
G 2 


84 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


laid  so  much  stress  on  teaching1,  as  compared 
with  the  preaching  which  formed  the  popular 
idea  of  a missionary’s  work. 

‘ I hope,’  he  said,  quietly,  ‘ that  while  I do 
the  one  I have  not  left  the  other  undone.  In 
the  days  of  my  strength  I spoke  daily  to  the 
people,  and  now  the  catechists  strive  faithfully 
with  them  in  the  bazaars  and  villages.  But  I have 
never  forgotten  John  Lawrence’s  parting  words 
to  me  when  he  passed  through  Calcutta  on  sick- 
leave,  in  1840:  “The  only  way  that  will  bring 

the  natives  to  truer  and  more  enlightened  ideas  is 
the  gradual  progress  of  education.  The  attempts 
to  change  the  faith  of  the  adult  population  have 
hitherto  failed,  and  will,  I am  afraid,  continue  to 
fail.”  ’ 

‘ But,’  I interposed,  1 is  not  our  State  education 
doing  the  needed  work  on  a far  larger  scale  ? ’ 

‘ I greatly  fear,’  he  replied,  ‘ that  it  is  not. 
Your  State  education  is  producing  a revolt 
against  three  principles  which,  although  they 
were  pushed  too  far  in  ancient  India,  represent 
the  deepest  wants  of  human  nature  — the  prin- 
ciple of  discipline,  the  principle  of  religion,  the 


THE  GOING  DOWN  OF  THE  SUN  85 

principle  of  contentment.  The  old  indigenous 
schools  carried  punishment  to  the  verge  of  torture. 
Your  Government  schools  pride  themselves  in 
having  almost  done  away  with  the  rod,  and  in 
due  time  you  will  have  on  your  hands  a race  of 
young  men  who  have  grown  up  without  discipline. 
The  indigenous  schools  made  the  native  religions 
too  much  the  staple  of  instruction  ; opening  the 
day’s  work  by  chanting  a long  invocation  to  the 
Sun  or  some  other  deity,  while  each  boy  began 
his  exercise  by  writing  the  name  of  a divinity 
at  the  top.  Your  Government  schools  take  credit 
for  abstaining  from  religious  teaching  of  any  sort, 
and  in  due  time  you  will  have  on  your  hands 
a race  of  young  men  who  have  grown  up  in  the 
public  non-recognition  of  a God.  The  indigenous 
schools  educated  the  working  and  trading  classes 
for  the  natural  business  of  their  lives.  Your  Govern- 
ment schools  spur  on  every  clever  small  boy  with 
scholarships  and  money  allowances,  to  try  to  get 
into  a bigger  school,  and  so  through  many  bigger 
schools,  with  the  stimulus  of  bigger  scholarships,  to 
a University  degree.  In  due  time  you  will  have  on 
your  hands  an  overgrown  clerkly  generation,  whom 


86 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


you  have  trained  in  their  youth  to  depend  on 
Government  allowances  and  to  look  to  Govern- 
ment service,  but  whose  adult  ambitions  not  all  the 
offices  of  the  Government  would  satisfy.  What 
are  you  to  do  with  this  great  clever  class,  forced  up 
under  a foreign  system,  without  discipline,  without 
contentment,  and  without  a God  ? ’ 

The  old  man  had  disengaged  his  arm  from 
mine  and  was  standing  motionless,  erect,  with 
his  sightless  eyes  looking  forth  from  their  deep 
sockets  into  space.  At  that  moment  it  flashed 
upon  me  what  ‘ Trafalgar  ’ Douglas  must  once 
have  been.  Twenty  years  afterwards,  when  we 
expanded  Indian  education  on  a more  national 
basis,  I remembered  his  words. 

4 The  day  will  come,’  he  went  on,  as  in  a reverie, 
4 when  your  State  educators  will  be  face  to  face 
with  the  results.  They  will  be  forced  back  on 
the  old  indigenous  schools  as  the  sure  foundation 
of  public  instruction  in  India.  They  will  find 
out  that  races  who  for  ages  have  borne  a heavy 
yoke  throughout  life,  cannot  be  trained  up  without 
discipline  in  their  youth.  They  will  also  discover 
that  the  end  of  national  education  is  not  to  create 


THE  GOING  DOWN  OF  THE  SUN  87 

one  vast  clerkly  class,  but  to  fit  all  classes  for 
their  natural  work.  You  will  then,  I suppose, 
set  up  technical  schools,  to  do  in  some  manner 
what  the  old  native  system  of  the  hedge-school 
and  the  hereditary  handicraft  did  in  perhaps  an  ex- 
cessive measure.  The  Government  will  discern  the 
danger  of  millions  of  men  growing  up  in  a dis- 
credited faith,  and  it  will  piece  together  a moral 
text-book  to  take  the  place  of  a God.  I shall 
not  see  that  day,  I know  not  how  its  difficulties 
will  be  met,  nor  how  the  great  changes  which  it 
must  bring  may  affect  our  missionary  schools. 
But  night  and  morning  I pray  that  wisdom  may 
be  given  to  our  rulers  to  know  the  times  and  the 
seasons,  and  to  do  righteousness  to  this  wandering 
people.’ 

After  an  eloquent  outburst  of  this  kind — and 
such  outbursts  became  more  frequent  as  his  blind- 
ness more  and  more  pent  up  his  nature  within 
itself — the  old  man  would  have  a period  of 
profound  calm.  On  that  particular  morning,  as 
it  was  the  festival  of  a Hindu  goddess  and  the 
Courts  were  closed,  I went  in  with  him  to  his 
dispensary— a little  room  in  his  bungalow  where 


88 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


he  daily  prescribed  to  the  sick  at  the  close  of 
his  school  work.  I believe  that  at  one  time  the 
people  flocked  in  numbers  to  him,  and  that  he  even 
conducted  surgical  operations.  But  the  growing 
popularity  of  the  station  hospital,  supported  by 
local  subscriptions  and  a Government  grant,  had 
for  several  years  made  its  wards  the  centre  of 
medical  relief.  Of  the  score  of  very  poor  women 
and  children  who  sat  weariedly  on  the  floor  of 
the  Missionary’s  veranda,  only  two  or  three  were 
new  cases.  Most  of  the  others  had  come  with 
bottles  to  be  refilled  with  fever  mixture  for  their 
sick  folk  at  home.  The  aged  practitioner  was 
very  slow  and  gentle  with  them,  and,  notwith- 
standing his  blindness,  managed  to  get  a clear 
knowledge  of  each  applicant’s  needs.  A native 
compounder  made  up  the  prescriptions  under  his 
orders,  or  replenished  the  phials  and  ointment 
boxes  from  big  blue  bottles  and  delf  jars.  When 
the  last  of  his  patients  had  departed,  the  old 
man  sat  silent  for  some  time. 

‘ I find,’  he  at  length  said  with  a sigh,  ‘ that 
my  ministrations  are  not  so  acceptable  as  they 
once  were.  At  first,  when  prescribing  medicine, 


THE  GOING  DOWN  OF  THE  SUN  89 

I offered  up  in  each  case  a short  prayer,  in  which 
the  patient  joined.  This  gave  great  confidence 
in  the  remedies.  Before  coming  back  to  India 
to  start  doctoring,  I held  commune  with  Edward 
Irving,  and  for  years  I used  the  Benediction 
of  Oil  and  the  beautiful  order  for  Anointing 
the  Sick  in  the  liturgy  of  the  Catholic  Apostolic 
Church.  But  I found  that  the  sorcerers  in  the 
hill  country  and  the  old  native  practitioners  of 
the  border  employed  somewhat  similar  ceremonies, 
especially  in  the  application  of  oil.  Or  rather, 
the  people  did  not  distinguish  between  their 
incantations  and  my  prayers.  If  I lost  a man 
from  fever,  the  widow  would  bitterly  complain  that 
her  husband  had  died  because  I had  only  spoken 
words,  instead  of  administering  the  quinine-powder 
wrapped  up  in  a paper  with  the  prayer  written 
on  it. 

‘ When  the  hill  sorcerers  asked  me  for  my 
secrets,  and  I gave  them  a few  common  remedies, 
they  thanked  me  politely.  But  they  went  away 
and  told  the  villagers  that  I was  very  deep,  as 
I kept  to  myself  the  spells,  without  which  the 
drugs  were  merely  dead  earths.  The  old  Hindu 


qo 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


practitioners  of  the  border  country  were  worse. 
For  they  said  that,  if  they  had  as  good  medicines 
as  mine,  their  gods  would  never  let  their  sick 
people  die  at  all.  So  that  whenever  a man 
recovered,  the  Christian  drugs  got  the  credit ; 
and  whenever  a man  died,  the  Christian  God  was 
reviled.  I could  not  go  on  with  prayers  which 
to  the  hearers  were  only  a more  cunning  magic. 
It  would  not  have  been  honest.  But  since  I gave 
them  up,  the  people  have  not  had  the  same  con- 
fidence in  my  practice,  and  go  to  the  Government 
hospital  instead.  They  say  that  the  medicines 
there  are  administered  by  order  of  the  Queen, 
and  so  do  not  require  divine  aid  or  spells  of 
any  sort.’ 

‘ I can  well  understand  these  notions  among 
the  hill  people,’  I remarked ; ‘ but  surely  your 

Christian  converts  know  better.’ 

‘ Christian  converts,’  he  answered  sadly,  ‘ remain, 
like  other  people,  pretty  much  what  their  early 
training  has  made  them.  Indeed,  some  of  the 
catechists  are  anxious  to  again  use  the  prayers 
when  giving  medicine.  It  so  happens  that  the 
very  first  Christian  hymn  composed  in  the  Bengali 


THE  GOING  DOWN  OF  THE  SUN  9 1 

language  was  a sick-bed  supplication.  Only  yester- 
day the  Brahman  preacher,  whom  you  saw  in  our 
cold-weather  encampment,  was  urging  me  as  their 
spokesman  in  this  matter.  He  is  a godly  youth, 
and  but  for  the  work  of  the  new  village  I had 
hoped  to  send  him  to  Calcutta  to  be  ordained 
priest  on  this  coming  Trinity  Sunday.  He  has 
held  deacon’s  orders  for  two  years.  I pointed 
out  to  him  that  our  Anglican  liturgy  does  not 
provide  for  the  use  of  prayers  in  the  administration 
of  medicine.  He  respectfully  pleaded  the  precept 
of  St.  James,  and  I refrained  from  further  speech, 
lest  I should  be  a disturber  of  his  faith.  His 
mind  is  working  in  many  directions,  and  in  my 
weakness  I can  only  trust  the  end  to  God.’ 

Just  then  we  heard  a light  step  in  the  veranda, 
and  his  little  daughter  ran  round  from  another 
room,  saying,  with  a laugh,  ‘ Have  you  forgotten 
my  lessons  to-day,  dear  papa  ? I am  quite  ready.’ 
The  old  man’s  face  lost  its  look  of  care  in  a moment 
as  he  took  her  hand  in  his,  and  we  went  into  the 
library. 

Only  a short  time  remained  till  their  breakfast — 
the  Missionary  kept  earlier  hours  than  the  rest 


92 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


of  the  station,  finishing  his  long  morning  work 
by  nine  in  the  cold  weather,  and  its  still  more 
numerous  duties  in  the  summer  months  by  ten. 
The  child  sat  down  on  a low  seat  at  her  father’s 
knee,  and  gravely  went  through  her  tasks.  She 
first  repeated  a psalm  in  the  vigorous  Scotch 
metrical  version,  which  she  had  committed  to 
memory.  Then  she  did  her  geography,  pointing 
out  the  towns  of  Europe  on  a map.  Her  sweet 
gratitude  and  quick  tact  made  the  old  man  feel, 
notwithstanding  his  blindness,  that  he  was  taking 
an  effective  part  in  the  proceedings.  He  listened 
with  pride  as  she  read  out  her  chapter  of  history, 
asking  her  from  time  to  time  to  spell  the  more 
difficult  words.  Before  doing  so  she  would 
solemnly  each  time  place  the  book  on  his  knees, 
face  downwards,  so  that  she  could  not  see  the 
page.  At  the  end  he  questioned  her  on  the 
whole  lessons  of  the  day.  The  anxious  child  had 
learned  everything  so  perfectly  that  her  blind 
preceptor  was  not  allowed  for  a moment  to  feel 
his  infirmity  a hindrance  in  examining  her  in 
books  which  he  could  not  see. 

Unlike  most  elderlypeople  in  India, the  Missionary 


THE  GOING  DOWN  OF  THE  SUN  93 

took  no  afternoon  sleep.  As  long  as  his  sight 
lasted,  he  devoted  that  pause  in  the  tropical  day 
to  his  dictionary.  Now  that  this  work  had  been 
withdrawn  from  him,  he  calmly  rearranged  his 
hours  to  the  new  conditions  imposed. 

Instead  of  taking  the  current  work  of  the 
mission  after  breakfast,  as  his  practice  had  been, 
he  gave  the  forenoon  to  his  daughter,  telling  her 
old  stories  of  the  Solway  and  Scottish  border, 
while  she  sat  beside  him  and  sewed ; or  listening 
to  her  reading  aloud  whatever  girlish  book  she 
was  engaged  on ; and  occasionally  dictating  to 
her  letters  for  his  friends.  It  was  a very  little 
hand  that  slowly  traced  those  epistles,  in  which 
the  mild  benevolence  and  experience  of  age  con- 
trasted quaintly  with  the  large  unformed  writing 
of  childhood.  After  a two  o’clock  dinner  he  made 
his  daughter  retire  to  rest,  and  the  young  Brahman 
preacher  came  to  him  with  the  reports  from  the 
outlying  schools  and  Christian  hamlets,  and  all 
the  miscellaneous  work  of  the  mission. 

Much  of  the  old  man’s  business  consisted  in 
settling  disputes  of  the  Christian  villagers,  and 
the  veranda  gradually  filled  with  the  litigants 


94 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


and  their  witnesses  as  the  afternoon  wore  on. 
Frequently,  too,  the  headmen  of  one  of  the  non- 
Christian  hill  tribes  would  arrive  in  the  mission 
enclosure  to  seek  his  advice,  or  to  ask  him  to 
decide  their  differences.  Groups  of  them  might  be 
seen  smoking  patiently  under  his  mango-trees,  or 
filling  their  pitchers  at  his  lotus-covered  fish-pond, 
which  they  had  named  rather  prettily  in  their 
hill  language,  ‘ The  Waters  of  Reconciliation.’  The 
calamity  lately  fallen  upon  him  increased  rather 
than  lessened  this  branch  of  his  work.  His  age 
and  blindness  seemed  to  have  given  an  additional 
sanctity  to  his  decisions. 

The  circumstance,  also,  that  his  doors  now  stood 
wide  open  all  afternoon  in  spite  of  the  outside 
glare,  enabled  the  whole  body  of  onlookers  and 
petitioners  to  watch  each  successive  case  till  their 
own  turn  came.  It  was  indeed  a striking  sight, 
as  I witnessed  it  late  one  afternoon.  The  tall 
venerable  figure,  with  its  white  hair  and  the  deep- 
set  eyes  that  looked  forth  into  the  brightness  with 
the  glance  of  a grand  old  eagle,  sat  just  inside  the 
open  door,  and  listened  with  an  immoveable  face  to 
the  loud  disputants  in  the  veranda.  His  very  slow- 


THE  GOING  DOWN  OF  THE  SUN  95 

ness  and  silence,  which  had  grown  painfully  on 
him  since  his  loss  of  sight,  appeared  to  make  the 
people  attach  greater  weight  to  every  word 
which  at  length  came  reluctantly  from  his  lips. 
Worried  as  we  officials  were  by  petty  cases 
dragged  upwards  from  one  tribunal  to  another, 
I could  not  help  telling  him  when  his  litigants 
had  gone,  that  the  Missionary’s  Court  was  the 
only  judgement-seat  in  the  district  from  which 
there  seemed  to  be  no  appeal. 

Having  settled  their  disputes,  he  went  back  to 
the  chair  at  his  writing-table,  on  which  lay  the 
specimen  proof-sheets  and  the  coarse  yellow 
manuscript  of  his  dictionary — the  usual  position 
in  which  I found  him  when  his  day’s  work  was 
done.  We  had  by  this  time  persuaded  him  to 
occasionally  take  a drive  in  the  evening — a con- 
cession which  he  only  made  to  his  daughter’s 
health,  and  because  she  firmly  refused  to  come 
without  him.  As  there  was  no  barouche  nor  any 
feminine  vehicle  in  the  station,  and  my  Australian 
curricle  had  the  only  seat  wide  enough  for  three 
persons,  Ayliffe  would  sometimes  put  his  fine 
stud-breds  into  it,  and  spin  them  a swift  dozen 


96 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


miles  through  the  cooling  air.  He  was,  however, 
much  more  missed  in  the  raquette  court  than  my- 
self, so  it  usually  fell  to  me  to  take  the  father  and 
child  for  their  evening  drive.  The  old  man  sat 
silent  and  sightless,  but  I think  quite  happy,  his 
hat  off,  and  his  white  hair  blown  about  by  our 
rapid  motion,  listening  to  his  little  daughter  as 
she  chattered  about  my  horses,  now  old  friends 
of  hers,  or  discoursed  on  the  small  incidents  of 
her  isolated  life.  It  tvas  funny  to  hear  her,  in 
prim  mission-house  fashion,  always  speak  of  the 
natives  quite  kindly  as  ‘ the  heathen.’ 

She  had  just  made  acquaintance  with  Pilgrim's 
Progress , the  assistant  magistrate  having  given  her 
the  beautiful  Edinburgh  edition,  with  David  Scott’s 
illustrations,  on  her  tenth  birthday.  Its  forty  mar- 
vellous designs  were  all  realities  to  her.  We  used 
to  be  on  the  look-out  for  the  various  characters 
as  we  tvhirled  along  the  road.  One  evening  we 
met  Timorous  and  Mistrust — they  were  a couple 
of  post-runners  with  jingling  bells  at  the  end  of 
their  bamboo  staves — fleeing  from  the  lions.  On 
another,  we  were  quite  sure  that  we  saw  Simple, 
Sloth,  and  Presumption  (three  fat  grain  merchants) 


THE  GOING  DOWN  OF  THE  SUN  97 

encamped  for  the  hot-weather  night  under  a tree. 
Her  father  was  always  valorous  Christian,  and 
a certain  bazaar  of  sweetmeat-sellers  and  bright 
printed  calicos  was  Vanity  Fair.  The  hillock  in 
the  judge’s  garden  became  the  top  of  the  Delect- 
able Mountains,  from  which  she  would  gaze  to 
the  western  hills : half  persuaded  that  amid  their 
heights  and  buttresses  standing  out  in  the  brief 
glory  of  the  sunset,  she  might  discern,  if  she  had 
but  the  .Shepherds’  perspective  glass,  the  gates  of 
the  Celestial  City.  The  only  thing  wanting  to  her 
father’s  happiness  on  these  drives  was  the  sound 
of  the  evening  bell  which  the  young  Brahman  had 
presented  to  the  mission  church.  When  at  home 
the  venerable  pastor,  often  too  fatigued  to  walk 
across  to  the  vesper  service,  used  to  sit  in  his 
veranda  and  listen  to  the  soft  tinkle  in  the  belfry 
with  a look  of  rapt  calm,  as  if  repeating  the  Nunc 
Dimittis  in  his  heart. 

I found  by  degrees,  however,  that  the  Brahman 
preacher  had  become  to  the  old  man  a subject  of 
anxious  thought.  Whether  it  was  the  result  of  the 
youth’s  independent  position  when  in  charge  of 
the  new  village,  or  of  his  studies  for  priestly 

H 


98 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


ordination,  or  merely  the  natural  development  of 
an  earnest  young  mind,  the  Brahman  had  ceased 
to  be  the  trusting  disciple,  and  was  working  out 
conclusions  for  himself.  Mr.  Douglas,  like  most 
men  born  in  a Scottish  episcopal  family,  had 
started  life  with  traditions  which  we  should  now 
briefly  label  as  High  Church.  On  his  return  to 
Scotland  in  1828  to  qualify  himself  as  a medical 
missionary,  his  views  had  taken  a mystical  turn, 
under  the  spell  of  the  apocalyptic  eloquence  with 
which  Edward  Irving  thrilled  for  a moment  the 
University  youth  in  the  northern  capital. 

A third  of  a century  of  solitary  mission  work 
since  then  had  sobered  his  opinions.  As  already 
mentioned,  his  doctrinal  beliefs  were  softened 
down  into  a great  daily  desire  to  do  good  for 
his  people.  The  young  postulant  for  priest’s 
orders  began  to  find  many  things  wanting  in  the 
theology  of  his  old  master.  I subsequently  heard 
that  the  Brahman  deacon,  having  now  the  prac- 
tical conduct  of  the  mission  chapel,  had  protested 
against  the  shortened  services  which  the  Old 
Missionary  thought  were  as  much  as  the  people 
could  bear.  He  also  complained  of  the  omission 


THE  GOING  DOWN  OF  THE  SUN  99 

of  the  Athanasian  Creed  on  the  appointed  feasts 
of  the  Church. 

It  appears  that  on  Whitsunday  he  remonstrated 
about  that  omission  so  earnestly  with  Mr.  Douglas 
as  almost  to  forget  his  habitual  respect.  Several 
of  the  catechists  afterwards  called  at  the  mission- 
house  to  urge  the  same  view  on  their  pastor. 
A number  of  lesser  differences,  indeed,  would 
seem  to  have  concentrated  themselves  on  this 
point.  The  stout-hearted  old  Scotchman,  not- 
withstanding his  sightless  eyes  and  feeble  limbs, 
refused  to  yield  to  the  pressure. 

Revival  meetings  were  held  by  the  dissentients 
during  the  Ember  days  of  the  following  week. 
One  youthful  enthusiast  went  so  far  as  to  publicly 
offer  up  a prayer  that  the  old  man  might  be 
brought  to  a knowledge  of  the  truth.  As  the 
mission  had  been  maintained  by  Mr.  Douglas  with- 
out any  definite  connexion  with  either  of  the  great 
Church  societies  in  Calcutta,  there  was  practically 
no  superior  authority  to  whom  to  appeal.  Some- 
thing like  a schism  was  threatened.  The  Old 
Missionary  said  not  a word  to  us  about  his  new 
troubles,  and  the  religious  perturbations  of  native 
H 2 


IOO 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


Christians  were  little  likely  to  reach  our  ears. 
But  we  could  see  that  a sadness,  deeper  than  the 
sorrow  of  blindness,  had  settled  on  his  face. 

It  was  the  custom  of  Ayton,  the  assistant  magis- 
trate, to  spend  Sunday  morning  before  breakfast 
with  the  venerable  scholar,  chatting  about  the 
linguistic  studies  to  which  that  young  officer  then 
devoted  his  leisure.  The  little  girl  was  absent 
during  those  hours,  keeping  quiet  the  baby-class 
in  the  Sunday  school  with  picture  stories  from 
the  Bible.  In  these  morning  talks  with  Ayton 
the  old  man's  love  of  learning  would  reassert  itself. 
He  seemed  for  the  moment  to  forget  his  infirmity 
and  whatever  other  distresses  lay  hidden  in  his 
heart.  One  topic  on  which  he  delighted  to  descant 
was  the  deeply  religious  and  benevolent  character 
of  ancient  Indian  literature.  Ayton  humoured  this 
vein,  and  used  to  turn  into  English  metre  any 
striking  passage  that  he  came  across  in  his  Sanskrit 
reading  during  the  week.  On  the  Sunday  after 
the  events  mentioned  in  the  last  paragraph  he 
had  brought  a few  chance  verses  of  the  sort, 
and  was  just  beginning  to  read  them,  when  I 
happened  to  look  in.  ‘ They  don’t  come  together,’ 


THE  GOING  DOWN  OF  THE  SUN 


IOI 


he  was  saying'  to  Mr.  Douglas,  ‘ and  I fear  you 
will  find  them  a poor  paraphrase  rather  than 
a translation.  But  the  mingled  feeling  of  transi- 
toriness and  trust  is  characteristic.’ 

A SANSKRIT  PSALM  OF  LIFE. 

Like  driftwood  on  the  sea’s  wild  breast, 

We  meet  and  cling  with  fond  endeavour 
A moment  on  the  same  wave’s  crest ; 

The  wave  divides,  we  part  for  ever. 

We  have  no  lasting  resting  here, 

To-day’s  best  friend  is  dead  to-morrow : 

We  only  learn  to  hold  things  dear, 

To  pierce  our  hearts  with  future  sorrow. 

Be  not  too  careful  for  the  morn, 

God  will  thy  daily  bread  bestow : 

The  same  eve  that  the  babe  is  born, 

The  mother's  breast  begins  to  flow. 

Will  He  who  robes  the  swan  in  white, 

Who  dyes  the  parrot’s  bright  green  hue, 

Who  paints  the  peacock’s  glancing  light, 

Will  He  less  kindly  deal  with  you  ? 

As  he  was  commencing  the  next  verse,  an  un- 
expected interruption  broke  in  on  these  scholarly 
imgac.  A step  hurried  over  from  the  chapel. 


IC2 


THE  OLD  M1SSIOH A R Y 


Ayton  and  I were  sitting  out  in  the  veranda  on 
the  other  side  of  the  house,  so  that  we  could  not 
see  the  new-comer,  nor  he  us.  The  missionary  sat 
between  us  in  his  customary  chair,  but  just  within 
the  door  of  the  room,  and  the  young  Brahman 
(for  it  was  he),  on  entering,  must  have  thought 
Mr.  Douglas  was  alone.  The  deacon  walked 
quickly  across  the  room,  raised  the  old  man’s 
hand  to  his  lips,  and  then,  with  a haste  which 
perhaps  may  have  been  designed  to  preclude  re- 
flection, burst  out  in  agitated  words : — 

‘ My  master,  my  dear  master ! I have  a message 
to  thee.  “ Whosoever  will  be  saved,  before  all 
things  it  is  necessary  that  he  hold  the  Catholic 
Faith.  Which  Faith,  except  every  one  do  keep 
whole  and  undefded,  without  doubt  he  shall 
perish  everlastingly.”  Forgive  me,  my  father,’ 
he  went  on,  in  a voice  quivering  from  the  re- 
ligious excitements  of  the  week,  and  his  intense 
Indian  nature  now  strung  up  to  the  verge  of 
weeping,  ‘ but  the  words  have  been  in  my  heart 
day  and  night,  and  I have  striven  not  to  utter 
them.  And  on  my  knees  this  Trinity  Sunday 
morning  I could  not  hear  the  sound  of  my  own 


THE  GOING  DOWN  OF  THE  SUN  103 

prayers  by  reason  of  a terrible  ringing  in  my 
ears,  “without  doubt  he  shall  perish  everlastingly, 
he  shall  perish  everlastingly.”  ’ 

A dead  silence  followed.  The  young  Brahman, 
still  unconscious  of  any  presence  except  that  of 
his  blind  master,  seemed  to  have  exhausted  his 
powers  of  utterance.  At  length  the  Old  Mis- 
sionary said,  very  gently : — 

‘ My  son,  let  us  pray  together.’ 

It  is  not  for  me  to  repeat  that  tender  and 
pathetic  outpouring  of  a well-nigh  broken  heart, 
intended  alone  for  its  Maker  in  heaven,  and  for 
the  wandering  disciple  on  earth.  At  its  close, 
the  aged  man  remained  kneeling  for  some  time. 
Then,  after  another  long  pause,  he  reseated  him- 
self in  his  chair,  and  reasoned  calmly  with  his 
pupil.  We  could  not  help  overhearing  what  took 
place.  The  young  Brahman  gradually  grew  ex- 
cited again,  and  in  the  end  declared  that  the 
people  were  being  starved  of  the  truth. 

We  gathered,  from  his  high-pitched  remon- 
strances, that  he  and  the  native  catechists  had 
worked  themselves,  by  revival  meetings,  into 
one  of  those  Eastern  religious  enthusiasms  which 


104  THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 

drove  forth  Patriarchs  of  Alexandria  and  Con- 
stantinople into  exile,  and  which,  but  for  the 
firm  British  rule,  would  every  year  redden  the 
streets  of  Agra  with  Hindu  or  Muhammadan 
blood.  It  had  never  occurred  to  us  that  any 
similar  wave  of  religious  feeling  could  surge  over 
a quiet  little  community  of  Christian  converts. 
The  truth  seems  to  be  that  the  younger  of  the 
catechists  had  for  some  time  desired  a warmer 
ritual  and  a more  tropical  form  of  faith  than  the 
calm  theology  of  their  aged  pastor  supplied. 

A High  Church  young  parson  of  the  Society 
for  the  Propagation  of  the  Gospel,  who  acted 
for  the  Old  Missionary  during  an  illness  in  the 
previous  autumn,  unconsciously  sowed  the  seeds 
of  discord.  The  fervour  of  the  Brahman  deacon 
merely  hastened  a crisis  which  had  become  in- 
evitable in  the  spiritual  life  of  the  mission.  One 
of  the  deep  chagrins  of  the  Old  Missionary,  which 
he  buried  out  of  sight  from  us,  was  this  feeling 
that  the  most  earnest  of  his  people  were  silently 
arraying  themselves  against  him.  Amid  the  re- 
ligious excitements  of  the  Whitsun  week,  with  its 
Ember  days,  the  mission  had  fairly  got  out  of 


THE  GOING  DOWN  OF  THE  SUN  105 

hand.  At  the  last  revival  meeting  the  catechists 
resolved,  among  other  things,  to  insist  on  the 
Athanasian  Creed  being  read  on  the  following 
Trinity  Sunday,  and  deputed  the  deacon  to  report 
their  ultimatum. 

‘ So  long  as  I live,’  replied  the  Old  Missionary 
slowly,  and  with  a solemn  emphasis  on  each  word, 
‘ the  church  in  which  I have  preached  Christ’s 
message  of  mercy  shall  never  be  profaned  by 
man’s  dogma  of  damnation.’ 

‘ My  father,  my  father,’  the  young  Brahman 
answered,  almost  breaking  into  sobs,  ‘ do  not 
speak  so.  For  unless  you  consent  to  have  the 
full  Trinity  service,  as  laid  down  in  the  Prayer 
Book,  we  have  bound  ourselves  not  to  enter  the 
chapel.’ 

‘ God’s  will  be  done,’  said  the  old  man  sadly, 
but  firmly. 

In  another  minute  the  deacon  had  left  the 
room,  and  we  listeners  in  the  veranda,  not  know- 
ing what  consolation  to  offer,  departed  in  silence 
to  our  homes. 

Indeed,  I had  at  that  time  a trouble  of  my  own, 
which  might  have  inclined  me  to  seek  counsel 


io6 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


rather  than  to  tender  it.  Scarcely  eight  weeks 
had  passed  since  I returned  to  the  judge’s  house, 
after  the  Easter  riot  at  the  silk  factory.  During 
the  last  three  of  them  a cloud  had  come  over 
my  relations  with  Ayliffe.  It  is  not  needful,  after 
this  lapse  of  time,  to  apportion  the  blame.  I 
suspect,  on  looking  back,  that  we  tvere  both 
right,  and  both  too  keen. 

Having  been  made  a judge  malgre  hds  Ayliffe 
set  himself  not  the  less  strictly  and  conscientiously 
to  discharge  the  duties  of  his  office.  The  sub- 
ordinate native  magistrates  found  an  exactitude 
enforced  from  them  in  their  judicial  work  to 
which  they  had  never  been  accustomed.  Some 
of  them  were  men  of  the  dignified  old  type,  and 
their  unacquaintance  with  English  made  it  difficult 
for  them  to  master  the  hard-and-fast  chapters  of 
the  new  Penal  and  Procedure  Codes.  Their  sen- 
tences were  now  constantly  reversed  on  appeal 
to  the  judge  owing  to  flaws  in  the  proceedings, 
and  notorious  offenders  got  off. 

My  difficulties,  as  the  officer  responsible  for 
keeping  down  crime  in  the  District,  were  increased 
by  the  circumstance  that  the  Bengal  police  had 


THE  GOING  DOWN  OF  THE  SUN  107 

also  been  reorganized  by  law  on  an  entirely  fresh 
basis.  The  system  was  full  of  novelties  both  to 
officers  and  men,  and  they  found  their  efforts 
checkmated  by  technicalities  which  they  imper- 
fectly understood.  Two  fraternities  of  gang- 
robbers,  whom  we  had  tracked  down  with  much 
difficulty,  escaped  on  their  trial  before  Ayliffe  as 
sessions  judge.  A sense  of  discouragement  began 
to  pervade  the  whole  executive  of  the  District. 

The  native  magistrates  came  to  me  with  their 
grievances ; the  English  superintendent  of  police 
less  discreetly  lamented  his  wrongs  to  a friend  at 
the  seat  of  Government.  Even  Ayton,  the  assistant 
magistrate  who  had  the  law  at  his  finger-ends, 
felt  it  his  duty  to  urge  on  me  the  detriment 
which  was  being  done  to  the  peace  and  order  of 
the  District.  ‘ It  is  very  well,’  he  said,  ‘ for  the 
legislature  to  launch  forth  new  Codes.  But  unless 
it  can  give  new  men  to  administer  them,  or  until 
the  old  native  magistrates  have  time  to  master 
them,  a judge  defeats  the  purposes  of  justice  by 
treating  irregularities  of  procedure  as  fatal  flaws 
in  a case.’ 

Living  as  Ayliffe  and  I were  on  the  most 


io8 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


intimate  terms,  under  the  same  roof,  it  was 
scarcely  possible  that  we  should  avoid  this  sub- 
ject. I pressed  for  the  allowances  which  might 
fairly  be  granted  to  our  half-instructed  subordin- 
ates during  a transition  stage.  He  alleged  the 
express  provisions  of  the  law.  His  sweetness  of 
temper  made  anything  like  a quarrel  impossible. 
But  underneath  his  considerate  courtesy  of  speech 
lay  an  immovable  firmness  of  purpose.  We  both 
felt  it  growing  dangerous  to  approach  a subject 
which  we  knew  was  on  each  other’s  mind.  A sense 
of  separation  arose.  We  kept  more  to  our  respec- 
tive wings  of  the  building  during  the  day,  and 
our  chairs  were  no  longer  carried  up  to  the  roof 
for  the  old  pleasant  talks  after  dinner.  I hurried 
on  the  work-people  at  my  own  house,  and  as  soon 
as  a few  rooms  could  be  made  weather-tight  I 
moved  over. 

One  result  of  the  change  was  that  I more  fre- 
quently found  a spare  half-hour  to  look  in  on 
the  Old  Missionary.  I thought  it  right  to  tell 
him  that  we  had  overheard  what  took  place 
between  him  and  the  young  Brahman.  The 
venerable  man,  on  learning  that  I was  become 


THE  GOING  DOWN  OF  THE  SUN  log 

aware  of  his  hidden  trouble,  freely  opened  his 
heart.  But  he  altogether  refused  to  share  in  my 
perhaps  too  freely  expressed  indignation  at  the 
deacon’s  ingratitude.  Since  the  schism  on  Trinity 
Sunday  neither  the  deacon  nor  the  catechists 
had  entered  the  chapel. 

‘ You  cannot  call  ingratitude,’  he  said,  ‘ a line 
of  action  that  proceeds  from  a sense  of  duty. 
This  affliction  has  fallen  not  less  heavily  on  the 
youth  than  on  myself.  I trust  in  God  that  He 
will  find  a way  for  both  of  us  through  the  trial. 
Meanwhile  I have  been  marvellously  renewed  for 
the  work  laid  upon  me.  The  older  and  simpler 
among  the  people  cleave  to  me ; and  I feel 
a strength  not  my  own  for  the  whole  religious 
services  of  the  week.’ 

It  became  clear,  however,  as  the  hot  weather 
dragged  on  its  remorseless  length,  that  the  old 
man  was  overtaxing  both  mind  and  body.  He 
had  strange  fits  of  lassitude,  from  which  some- 
times the  only  thing  that  roused  him  was  the 
tinkle  in  the  belfry  calling  him  and  his  faithful 
few  to  prayer.  The  other  business  of  the  mission 
seemed  to  lose  interest  for  him,  while  this  single 


no 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


duty  grew  into  an  absorbing  anxiety.  A great 
unacknowledged  fear  took  possession  of  him  lest 
he  should  find  himself  one  day  unable  for  the 
work.  The  pupil-teacher  who  read  the  Psalms 
and  other  parts  of  the  Bengali  service  which  the 
blind  pastor  did  not  repeat  from  memory,  com- 
plained to  the  Missionary’s  little  daughter  of  un- 
wonted omissions  and  transposals  in  the  Liturgy, 
which  sometimes  made  it  difficult  for  him  to 
know  when  his  own  parts  came  in.  Her  small 
anxious  face  grew  paler  day  by  day,  and  occasion- 
ally I fancied  that  one  caught  something  like  a sob 
in  her  voice. 

With  the  pathetic  half- perceptions  of  childhood, 
she  felt  the  presence  of  a trouble  which  she  could  not 
alleviate,  and  a growing  sense  of  calamity  around 
her  which  she  could  not  understand.  For  the  first 
time,  too,  she  seemed  to  divine  the  solitude  of  her 
poor  little  life.  All  she  could  do  was  to  suffer  in 
fear  and  silence.  Even  the  small  distractions  of 
her  lonely  existence  were  one  by  one  curtailed. 
Her  father  was  now  too  wearied  before  evening 
to  rouse  himself  for  the  slight  exertion  of  a drive. 
I learned  also,  by  accident,  that  the  child  had 


THE  GOING  DOWN  OF  THE  SUN 


ill 


given  up  bringing  her  lessons  to  him  in  the  morn- 
ing. She  seems  to  have  spent  the  long  stifling 
hours  of  the  day  in  wistfully  waiting  on  his 
slightest  wishes : always  watching,  watching,  with 
a child’s  keen  sense  of  a great,  undefined  sorrow 
in  the  house. 

It  was  in  vain  that  we  remonstrated  with  the 
venerable  pastor  against  his  persisting  in  duties 
which  were  evidently  beyond  his  powers.  ‘ As 
my  day  is,  so  shall  my  strength  be,’  was  all  we 
could  get  from  him  in  reply.  Indeed  it  became 
clear  that,  if  he  had  not  taken  on  himself  the  whole 
religious  services  of  the  mission,  the  revivalists 
would  have  left  him  without  any  adherents  what- 
ever. They  had  formed  a temporary  congregation 
under  the  eloquent  ministrations  of  the  young 
deacon.  The  Brahman  appeared,  however,  to  hold 
back  rather  than  lead  on  the  more  fervid  spirits 
among  the  rank  and  file  of  converts  from  the 
low-castes.  I afterwards  heard  that  he  rebuked 
from  the  pulpit  certain  of  the  catechists,  who 
wished  to  widen  the  separation  and  make  it  per- 
manent by  applying  for  a new  English  missionary 
to  the  Society  for  the  Propagation  of  the  Gospel  in 


1 12 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


Calcutta.  All  this,  and  probably  much  more, 
must  have  been  known  to  our  old  friend,  and 
explains  his  intense  anxiety  to  maintain  the 
services  and  so  tide  the  mission  over  its  time  of 
trial.  The  chapel  bell  at  morning'  and  evening 
seemed  to  have  grown  dearer  to  him  as  the  sole 
remaining  symbol  of  peace. 

One  forenoon,  just  before  the  courts  closed  for 
the  rest  of  the  flaming  day,  I received  a note  from 
the  doctor  asking  me  to  look  in  at  the  mission  - 
house  on  my  way  home.  He  himself  met  me  in 
the  veranda,  and  whispered  that  the  painful  com- 
plaint from  which  the  Missionary  suffered  the 
previous  year  at  the  end  of  the  rains  had  broken 
out  again.  He  did  not,  however,  think  the  attack 
more  serious  than  the  last  one,  although  the  hot 
weather  was  very  much  against  him.  On  entering 
I found  the  library  turned  into  a sick-room.  The 
bed  on  which  the  patient  lay,  a common  country 
charpoy  strung  with  coarse  fibre,  had  been  brought 
in  from  his  sleeping  chamber,  and  placed  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor  under  the  punka.  For  the 
first  time  since  his  blindness  all  the  double  doors 
and  windows  were  shut  up,  and  it  took  some 


THE  GOING  DOWN  OF  THE  SUN  1 13 

moments  before  my  vision  accustomed  itself  to 
the  darkness.  The  tight-drawn  face  was  flushed 
and  red  in  its  setting  of  white  hair,  the  lips 
muttered  in  high  fever,  the  eyes  from  time  to 
time  moved  with  a restless  brightness  which  made 
it  difficult  to  believe  they  did  not  see. 

One  hand  tugged  ceaselessly  at  the  sheet,  the 
other  was  clasped  by  his  little  daughter  who 
sat  on  her  low  cane  stool  by  the  bedside.  She 
had  arranged  the  accessories  of  a sick-room  on 
a small  round  table  within  her  reach — the  phials, 
and  moist  sponge,  and  cool  porous  earthern 
pitcher  of  water.  Every  few  minutes  she  gently 
removed  the  hot  handkerchief  from  her  father’s 
forehead,  and  replaced  a newly-wetted  one  on 
his  brow.  The  appealing,  wearied  look  that  had 
pained  us  during  the  past  weeks  had  gone  out 
of  her  small  face,  and  she  watched  every  move- 
ment of  the  sufferer  with  a solemn  and  silent 
earnestness  which  was  entirely  unconscious  of  her 
own  anxieties  and  deep  trouble. 

‘ He  must  have  been  struggling  with  illness 
for  some  time,’  said  the  doctor,  when  half  an 
hour  afterwards  we  went  back  into  the  veranda. 

I 


1 14  THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 

‘ I suspect,  too,  that  he  got  touched  by  the  sun 
this  morning  as  he  walked  across  to  the  chapel, 
and  so  brought  matters  to  a crisis.  About  seven 
o’clock  a man  came  running  to  me  in  the  hospital, 
crying  that  the  Padre  Saheb  was  in  a fit.  It 
appears  that  on  kneeling  down,  after  giving  the 
Benediction  at  the  close  of  the  service,  he  remained 
motionless  for  some  time  and  then  fell  forward  on 
the  pavement.  I found  him  lying  there  uncon- 
scious, with  his  daughter  holding  up  his  head 
in  her  arms.  The  fever,  I hope,  is  chiefly  the 
result  of  the  sun,  and  should  pass  off.  But  his 
former  malady  has  been  doing  mischief  again. 

‘ The  poor  old  man  must  have  been  in  great 
pain  for  several  days  without  telling  any  one.  I 
shall  camp  here  for  the  afternoon,  and  as  soon  as 
my  servant  brings  over  my  breakfast  I hope  to 
persuade  the  little  girl  to  eat  something,  and  get 
her  off  to  bed  for  a couple  of  hours.  It  will  be 
time  enough  to  relieve  me  for  my  evening  round 
at  five  o’clock,  and  you  can  arrange  with  the 
others  for  the  night.’ 

The  division  of  duties  was  easily  made.  Ayliffe 
took  the  first  watch,  and  meanwhile  sent  off  a 


THE  GOING  DOWN  OF  THE  SUN  115 

servant  to  Calcutta  to  fetch  up  a block  of  Wenham 
ice  in  a thick  new  horse-blanket.  For,  although 
the  railway  had  brought  the  capital  within  eight 
hours  of  us  by  train  and  relays  of  horses,  ice 
was  still  only  an  occasional  luxury  in  our  small 
station,  and  local  ice-making  machines  were  then 
scarcely  used  in  India.  The  assistant  magistrate 
and  district  superintendent  of  police  shared  the 
night  between  them,  and  I came  on  at  daybreak. 

The  distant  jail  gong  was  striking  five  in  the 
still  air,  with  the  first  dim  pink  just  tinging  the 
eastern  sky,  as  I walked  over  to  the  Old  Mission- 
ary’s cottage.  But  I found  the  little  girl  already 
dressed  and  sitting  on  her  cane  stool  watching 
the  sleeper.  Ayton  told  me  that  she  had  heard 

the  runners  come  in  with  the  ice  an  hour 
earlier,  and  at  once  presented  herself  to  see  it 
chopped  up,  and  to  fold  it  in  the  handkerchief 
on  her  father’s  forehead.  The  old  man  quickly 
felt  the  relief,  and  after  a restless  night  sank  into 
a profound  slumber.  The  doctor  called  soon 
after  six  and,  without  disturbing  the  sleeper,  gave 
a good  account  of  his  condition.  The  improve- 
ment was  maintained  during  the  day,  and  we 


1 16 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


hoped  that  the  attack  was  a mere  touch  of  the 
sun,  which  would  run  its  course  and  leave  the 
patient  none  the  worse.  Our  small  bachelor 
community  at  once  fell  into  the  routine  of  nursing 
him  in  watches  of  four  hours,  leaving  him  to  his 
daughter  for  the  afternoon. 

But  in  a day  or  two  the  doctor  told  us  that 
the  former  complaint  had  reasserted  itself  in 
a dangerous  form,  and  that  a small  operation 
would  be  needful.  Before  the  week  was  out  we 
were  compelled  to  accept  the  fact  that  our  old 
friend  was  struggling  for  his  life  against  prostration 
and  pain,  and  an  exhausting  fever  which  he  could 
not  shake  off.  His  servant,  a hard-working  devout 
old  Musalman,  who  represented  in  that  modest 
household  the  joint  train  of  Hindu  and  Muham- 
madan domestics  in  ordinary  Anglo-Indian  estab- 
lishments, never  quitted  the  door  of  the  sick-room 
except  to  prepare  his  master’s  food  in  the  kitchen, 
or  to  pray  with  his  face  towards  Mecca  five  times 
each  twenty-four  hours.  Day  and  night  he  was 
ready  at  the  slightest  call : always  calm,  always 
helpful,  always  in  spotless  white  garments,  and 
apparently  needing  no  sleep,  save  what  he  could 


THE  GOING  DOWN  OF  THE  SUN  1 17 

snatch  sitting  on  his  heels,  with  a rocking  move- 
ment, in  the  veranda. 

The  poor  little  girl  broke  down  on  the  day 
after  the  operation,  chiefly,  I think,  owing  to  the 
moans  which  the  sufferer  unconsciously  uttered 
while  in  his  fever.  She  was  taken  over  to 
Ayliffe’s  house.  But  she  pined  there  so  silently 
and  piteously,  that  the  doctor  brought  her  back 
to  her  father,  on  condition  that  she  should  only 
attend  on  him  during  the  latter  part  of  the  day, 
when  he  was  at  his  brightest.  He  usually  rallied 
in  the  afternoons,  and  talked  quite  cheerfully  of 
the  future.  The  heavy  anxiety  about  the  work 
of  the  mission,  which  had  pressed  on  him  with 
a morbid  consuming  apprehension  just  before  his 
illness,  seemed  to  have  disappeared.  Nor  from 
first  to  last,  except  during  the  delirium  of  the  re- 
curring fever,  did  he  utter  a complaint,  or  allow 
himself  to  give  one  outward  symptom  of  pain. 

It  was  only  from  the  doctor  that  we  learned 
how  much  he  suffered.  He  would  not  allow 
any  of  us  to  move  him  in  his  bed,  lest  the  mere 
change  of  position  should  extort  a groan.  And, 
indeed,  his  old  servant  had  an  almost  feminine 


ii8 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


tenderness  of  touch,  and  a slow  gentleness  of  hand 
that  made  us  feel  him  to  be  a better  nurse  than 
any  of  us. 

The  little  girl  also  rallied,  now  that  she  was 
restored  to  her  father.  The  old  man  and  the  child 
spent  the  hours  of  each  afternoon  together,  scarcely 
speaking,  but  quite  happy  as  long  as  they  felt  the 
clasp  of  one  another’s  hand.  Only  towards  sunset, 
at  the  hour  when  the  chapel  bell  had  formerly 
rung  for  evening  prayer,  he  became  restless  and 
watchful.  vSometimes  he  would  half  raise  his  head 
in  a listening  attitude,  and  then,  having  waited  in 
vain  for  the  beloved  sound  in  the  now  silent  belfry, 
the  white  hair  would  sink  back  on  the  pillow, 
while  a look  of  pained  perplexity  settled  on  his 
face.  During  the  night,  when  the  fever  was  on 
him,  he  would  ask  again  and  again  in  a weary 
tone,  ‘ Why  did  I not  hear  the  bell  ? why  do  they 
not  ring  the  bell?’ 

Meanwhile  the  news  had  reached  the  jungle 
country  that  the  Old  Missionary  lay  sick.  Groups 
of  short  thick-built  hillmen  began  to  encamp  on 
the  outskirts  of  his  orchard.  When  it  became 
known  that  his  life  was  in  danger,  their  women 


THE  GOING  DOWN  OF  THE  SUN  119 

also  arrived.  In  the  early  morning  we  saw  them 
silently  drawing  water  from  the  fish-pond ; all 
through  the  burning  day  they  sat  smoking  and 
waiting  under  the  trees ; the  dying  embers  of  their 
cooking  fires  glowed  with  a dull  red  throughout 
the  night.  The  doctor  wanted  to  send  them  away, 
so  as  to  keep  the  sick  house  as  clear  as  possible 
of  human  beings.  But  the  Old  Missionary  pleaded 
for  them,  and,  indeed,  the  space  was  large  enough 
if  they  would  only  be  quiet.  It  was  marvellous 
to  see  that  gathering  of  hillmen,  accustomed  to  the 
incessant  chatter  of  their  forest  hamlets,  stealing 
noiselessly  about  or  sitting  in  silent  circles. 

One  afternoon  the  headmen  of  the  Christian 
clans  were  allowed  to  come  into  the  veranda,  but 
the  sight  of  their  blind  and  prostrate  leader  and 
the  presence  of  unknown  Europeans  (the  doctor 
and  myself)  seemed  to  take  away  their  powers  of 
speech.  The  Old  Missionary  talked  kindly  but 
feebly  to  them,  while  they  stood  shy  and  restrained, 
almost  without  a word.  The  interview  threatened 
to  end  in  awkward  silence,  when  an  aged  grey- 
haired hillwoman,  the  mother  of  one  of  the 
prisoners  whose  release  the  Missionary  had  ob- 


120 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


tained,  pushed  through  the  men  and,  throwing  her- 
self on  her  knees  at  the  bottom  of  the  bed,  kissed 
the  old  man’s  feet  with  sobs  and  blessings. 

Next  week  the  hillmen  and  people  from  the  out- 
lying jungle -hamlets  flocked  into  the  station  in 
such  numbers  that  they  had  to  be  removed  from 
the  mission  enclosure.  The  judge  gave  them  leave 
to  camp  at  the  lower  end  of  his  park,  where  there 
was  a large  tank ; and  only  their  headmen  were 
allowed  to  come  and  sit  in  silence  under  the 
Missionary’s  trees.  The  old  Musalman  servant 
went  out  to  them  five  times  a day,  at  his  appointed 
prayer-times,  to  report  how  his  master  fared. 

I had  not  met  the  Brahman  deacon  since  the 
rupture  between  him  and  the  Old  Missionary ; but 
I heard  that  Ayton,  the  assistant  magistrate,  had 
spoken  to  him  in  such  unsparing  terms  as  pre- 
vented him  from  coming  near  the  mission-house. 
Their  interview  was  a painful  one.  The  young 
Brahman,  confident  that  he  was  acting  under  divine 
guidance,  yet  very  unhappy  about  the  human 
results  of  his  action,  sought  counsel  of  Ayton, 
as  the  only  one  of  us  who  had  previously  come 
much  in  contact  with  him  or  shown  him  kindness. 


THE  GOING  DOWN  OF  THE  SUN 


121 


Ayton,  nerved  by  the  harsh  justice  of  youth, 
listened  in  silence  until  the  deacon  reached  the 
point  in  regard  to  which  the  schism  had  actually 
taken  place — the  Athanasian  Creed.  Then  he 
coldly  observed : — 

‘ You  are  an  educated  man  and  a University 
graduate.  Before  you  quarrelled  with  your  bene- 
factor on  such  a question,  you  would  have  done 
well  to  read  your  Gibbon.’ 

‘ I came  to  you,  sir,’  replied  the  Brahman, 
‘ seeking  counsel,  and  willing  to  bear  reproof ; 
and  you  refer  me  to  a scoffer.’ 

‘ On  a man  who  can  act  as  you  have  acted,’ 
Ayton  sternly  answered,  1 counsel  would  be  thrown 
away,  and  I have  no  authority  to  administer  reproof. 
Nor  am  I aware  that  Gibbon,  in  his  account  of 
Athanasius,  errs  in  anything  unless  on  the  side 
of  a too  enthusiastic  admiration.  But,  although 
I have  neither  counsel  nor  reproof  for  you,  I may 
plainly  tell  3^ou  that  your  conduct  seems  to  me 
the  basest  ingratitude.’ 

‘ I have  but  followed  my  lights.’ 

1 Followed  your  lights ! Split  up  a community, 
and  brought  sorrow  on  your  benefactor  in  his 


122 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


blindness  and  old  age,  for  the  sake  of  a creed  com- 
piled centuries  after  the  death  of  the  man  whose 
name  it  bears — a creed  passed  over  in  silence  by 
most  of  the  Christian  sects,  and  by  the  majority  of 
our  own  Church  in  America  and  in  Ireland.  How 
can  you  look  around  you  at  the  good  lives  and 
patient  endurance  of  millions  of  your  countrymen, 
and  dare  to  assert  they  will  perish  everlastingly  ? 
You  say  you  have  come  to  me  for  advice ; but 
what  advice  can  avail  you  as  long  as  you  are  in 
mutiny  against  the  man  to  whom,  by  every  tie 
of  personal  gratitude  and  constituted  authority, 
you  owe  obedience  ? ’ 

When  the  Old  Missionary  grew  worse,  I heard 
that  the  deacon  used  to  steal  into  the  kitchen  (an 
outhouse  at  a little  distance  from  the  cottage)  after 
dark,  and  tremulously  question  the  old  Musalman 
servant  about  his  master.  In  his  deep  dejection 
the  youth  even  went  to  Ayton’s  pandit,  a fine  old 
Rrahman  of  the  straitest  sect  of  Hinduism ; but 
with  whom  the  convert  now  felt  a new  bond  from 
their  common  anxiety  about  their  sick  friend. 
Each  morning  the  pandit,  arrayed  in  delicate 
white  muslin,  came  to  make  his  salaam  at  the 


THE  GOING  DOWN  OF  THE  SUN  1 23 

door  of  his  venerable  fellow-student ; and  some- 
times he  was  allowed  a short  talk  with  our  patient 
in  the  afternoon.  He  kept  the  deacon  informed 
of  what  was  going  on  inside  the  cottage,  with 
the  quiet  urbanity  due  to  his  own  sacred  character 
as  a pandit  of  high  caste,  but  without  any  pretence 
of  sympathy  for  the  convert. 

One  evening  the  unfortunate  young  man  was 
tempted  in  his  desolation  to  try  to  get  within  the 
barrier  of  politeness  which  the  courteous  native 
scholar  habitually  interposed.  He  poured  forth  the 
successive  episodes  of  the  inward  struggle  which 
made  up  the  story  of  his  short  life  ; a struggle  which 
had  cut  him  off  from  all  he  held  dearest  in  boy- 
hood, and  which  now  separated  him  from  the  sorely 
stricken  master  whom  he  reverenced  and  loved. 

‘ Tell  me,  Pandit,’  he  concluded,  ‘ you  who  have 
lived  long,  and  who  seem  to  have  attained  to  so 
perfect  a peace,  what  is  my  duty  ? How  shall 
I find  rest  ? ’ 

1 Poor  youth,’  replied  the  Pandit,  with  calm 
compassion,  ‘ what  rest  can  there  be  for  one  who 
was  born  a Brahman  and  has  fallen  away  from 
Brahmanhood  ? During  thousands  of  years  your 


124 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


Brahman  fathers  in  each  generation  have  sought 
after  divine  knowledge,  and  the  same  burden  was 
laid  upon  you  by  your  birth.  In  your  boyish  im- 
patience you  listened  to  teachers  who  thought  they 
could  suddenly  impart  to  you  the  truth — the  truth 
which  you  are  compelled  by  your  Brahman’s  nature 
to  search  out  for  yourself  as  long  as  you  shall  live.’ 

‘ But,  sir,  you  forget  that  the  truth  which  they 
gave  me  was  given  not  of  themselves,  but  was 
revealed  by  God.’ 

‘ A revealed  religion,’  continued  the  Brahman 
impassively,  ‘ is  a short  cut  to  a false  sense  of 
certainty  in  regard  to  divine  things.  It  is  useful 
for  the  lower  castes,  whose  lives  of  toil  do  not 
leave  them  leisure  for  severe  thought.  Therefore 
our  fathers  provided  incarnations  for  the  common 
people,  and  so  shadowed  forth  in  visible  forms 
the  conceptions  which  they  themselves  had  worked 
out  regarding  God.  But  they  never  set  fetters 
on  religious  thought  by  confining  it  within  the 
limits  of  a final  revelation,  well  knowing  that,  from 
the  first,  man  has  made  God  in  his  own  image 
and  continues  to  thus  remake  Him  in  each  suc- 
ceeding age.  A mind  like  yours,  compelled  by 


THE  GOING  DOWN  OF  THE  SUN  125 

its  nature  to  go  on  inquiring  throughout  life 
after  truth,  yet  shut  up  within  the  prison-walls 
of  an  ancient  and  a final  revelation,  can  neither 
dwell  in  peace  with  its  fellow-captives  nor  find 
peace  for  itself.  In  such  a religion  a Brahman, 
if  he  is  to  obtain  rest,  must  stifle  his  Brahman’s 
spirit  of  inquiry  by  eating  beef,  and  drinking  beer, 
and  by  absorbing  himself,  as  the  European  gentle- 
men do,  in  worldly  anxieties  and  successes.’ 

‘ Sir,’  interposed  the  deacon  reverently,  ‘ my 
peace  of  mind  in  the  future  I leave  to  God ; but 
what  is  my  present  duty  ? ’ 

‘ You  have  been  born  a Brahman,  and,  although 
fallen,  you  cannot  divest  yourself  of  your  birth. 
Your  duty  is  not  to  disgrace  it.  Your  new  re- 
ligion allows  you,  a young  man,  to  set  up  your 
immature  ideas  of  divine  things  against  the  ripe 
knowledge  of  your  teacher,  and  leads  you  to 
desert  him  in  his  blindness  and  old  age.  In  such 
a religion  I can  find  for  you  no  rule  of  conduct. 
But  as  a Brahman  you  are  bound  by  the  first 
rule  of  your  Brahmanhood  to  obey  your  spiritual 
guide.  You  have  chosen  your  spiritual  guide  for 
yourself.  Submit  yourself  to  him.’ 


126 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


Meanwhile  the  rains  were  due  in  our  District 
in  ten  days,  and  if  our  old  friend  could  only  last 
till  the  great  climatic  change,  the  doctor  gave 
us  good  hopes  of  him.  A second  operation,  of 
a painful  although  not  serious  nature,  had  been 
found  necessary ; but  the  perfect  peace  of  mind 
of  the  patient  helped  him  through  the  crisis.  He 
passed  the  long  hot  hours  with  his  hand  clasped 
in  his  little  daughter’s,  very  placid,  and  apparently 
without  any  burden  of  outward  care,  except  when 
the  silence  of  the  chapel  bell  at  sunset  awakened 
some  painful  memory.  The  good  Jesuit  had 
journeyed  into  the  station  to  visit  his  sick  friend, 
and  stayed  to  take  his  share  of  the  nursing. 

Indeed,  what  between  this  kindly  priest,  and  the 
old  Musalman  servant,  and  the  little  daughter, 
our  turn  for  attendance  now  came  only  every 
second  night,  and  the  strain  on  the  few  Europeans 
in  the  station  passed  off.  The  stream  of  life 
flowed  feebly  in  our  old  friend,  yet  without  per- 
ceptible abatement.  Each  morning,  too,  the 
telegrams  in  the  Calcutta  newspaper  announced 
stage  by  stage  the  approach  of  the  rains,  with 
their  majestic  cloud-procession  northwards  across 


THE  GOING  DOWN  OF  THE  SUN  127 

India,  bringing  nearer  by  so  many  hundred  miles 
a day  the  promise  of  relief. 

The  Jesuit  father  had  his  quarters  in  my  half- 
repaired  house,  and  late  one  Saturday  night,  as  he 
was  pacing  up  and  down  the  veranda  in  medita- 
tion, I heard  a voice  address  him  in  a low 
appealing  tone.  It  was  the  unhappy  deacon, 
tempest-tossed  with  internal  conflicts  and  agonies, 
who  had  come  to  him  in  the  darkness. 

1 Reverend  sir,’  he  said,  in  short,  agitated  sen- 
tences, ‘ take  pity  on  me.  I am  in  great  misery. 
My  conscience  tells  me  I am  acting  right,  but  my 
heart  accuses  me  of  acting  wrong.  Oh,  help  me 
to  the  truth ! There  is  no  one  else  to  whom 
I can  go.  Those  with  whom  I am  joined  feel 
no  doubts.  They  reproach  me  with  mine.  I come 
to  you  as  a priest,  to  tell  me  what  to  do.’ 

‘ My  son,’  replied  the  Jesuit  father,  ‘ you  cannot 
come  to  me  as  a priest.  For  you  have  halted 
half-way  between  the  darkness  of  heathendom 
and  the  light  of  the  Church.  But  although  you 
cannot  come  to  me  as  priest,  you  may  come  to 
me  as  a friend.  And  as  a friend  I earnestly  counsel 
you  toseek  forgiveness  for  the  wrong  you  have  done.’ 


128 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


‘ But  how  can  I go  against  my  conscience,  and 
sacrifice  to  my  human  affection  the  appointed 
order  of  my  Church  ? ’ 

‘ Your  conscience,’  rejoined  the  Seminarist,  ‘ is 
in  this  case  only  a name  for  your  private  judge- 
ment. You  and  your  aged  teacher  have  equally 
applied  your  private  judgements  to  what  you  call 
the  appointed  order  of  your  Church.  The  question 
is  whether  you  will  submit  your  private  judgement 
to  his,  or  set  up  your  private  judgement  above  his. 
He  is  your  master  and  your  benefactor.  Again 
I say,  seek  his  forgiveness  for  the  wrong  you  have 
done.’ 

No  words  followed,  and  the  deacon  disappeared 
into  the  darkness  out  of  which  he  had  emerged. 
Years  afterwards,  he  told  me  that  he  wandered  in 
desolation  throughout  that  night,  finding  himself 
unconsciously  circling  round  and  round  the  mis- 
sion enclosure.  The  thought  took  possession  of 
his  mind  that  each  of  the  very  different  counsellors 
to  whom  he  had  gone  had  enjoined  on  him  the 
same  course.  Obey  your  superior  officer,  the 
assistant  magistrate  had  practically  said.  Submit 
yourself  to  your  spiritual  guide,  repeated  the 


THE  GOING  DOWN  OF  THE  SUN  129 

Brahman  sage.  Ask  forgiveness,  commanded  the 
Jesuit  priest.  His  pride  broke  down  under  the  self- 
questionings of  the  slow  solemn  hours  of  darkness 
and  solitude.  But  his  duty  to  those  who  looked  to 
him  as  their  leader  and  guide  filled  his  mind  with 
an  obscurity  deeper  than  that  of  the  night. 

Only  as  the  sun  rose  was  his  resolve  taken. 
Worn  out,  haggard,  his  cotton  clothes  dripping 
with  the  dew,  and  stained  a muddy  red  from 
the  brick-rubble  of  which  the  roads  in  our 
District  were  made,  he  went  round,  to  each 
of  the  catechists  and  their  chief  followers,  and 
summoned  them  to  the  room  which  they  used 
as  a place  of  worship.  It  was  Sunday  morning, 
and  they  came  expecting  some  new  revival  ex- 
citement. After  an  earnest  prayer  he  made  a 
public  confession  before  them.  He  told  them  in 
a few  humble  and  touching  words  that  he  felt 
he  had  wronged  his  master.  Without  judging 
others,  he  declared  his  own  resolve  to  seek  forgive- 
ness of  the  Old  Missionary.  Then,  commending 
himself  to  their  prayers,  he  left  the  room  amid 
a dead  silence. 

The  Old  Missionary  got  his  best  sleep  in  the 
K 


130  THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 

cool  of  the  morning-,  and  on  that  Sunday  he 
awakened  rather  later  than  usual.  He  had  finished 
his  light  invalid’s  breakfast,  and  was  listening-  to 
his  little  daughter  reading  the  ‘ Let  not  your 
heart  be  troubled  ’ chapter  of  St.  John’s  Gospel, 
when  a familiar  voice,  not  heard  in  the  cottage  for 
many  days,  asked  through  the  heavy  Venetians, 
‘ May  I come  in,  sir  ? ’ In  another  minute  the 
young  deacon  was  kneeling  by  his  bedside  sobbing 
out  his  repentance,  and  covering  the  wasted  silky 
hands  with  tears  and  kisses.  1 My  son,  my  dear, 
dear  son,’  was  all  the  old  man  could  say. 

For  some  hours  he  remained  in  an  ecstatic 
state  of  joy  and  peace,  until,  wearied  out  by 
excess  of  happiness,  he  sank  in  the  afternoon 
into  a profound  slumber.  Before  he  woke  it  was 
evening,  and  the  chapel  bell,  after  weeks  of  silence, 
was  giving  out  its  gentle  sound  on  the  other 
side  of  the  fish-pond.  During  some  moments 
a smile  played  over  the  face  of  the  sleeper.  Then, 
completely  awakening,  he  raised  his  head  on  his 
arm,  and  listened  with  a look  of  beatified  repose. 
The  Brahman  deacon,  who  was  still  by  his  bedside, 
kissed  his  worn  hand,  and  rose  to  go  to  the  chapel. 


THE  GOING  DOWN  OF  THE  SUN  13 1 

‘ My  father,’  he  said,  ‘ once  more  give  me  your 
forgiveness  and  blessing.’  The  old  man  stretched 
out  both  hands  on  the  youth’s  head,  offered  up 
an  almost  inaudible  thanksgiving,  and  added,  ‘ Let 
them  sing  “ For  ever  with  the  Lord.”  ’ 

It  was  one  of  his  favourite  hymns,  and  he 
had  translated  it  with  rare  felicity  both  into  the 
Bengali  and  the  hill  language.  The  highland 
people  thronged  the  chapel  from  their  camping- 
ground  at  the  lower  end  of  the  judge’s  park. 
The  catechists  and  their  followers  were  also  there. 
The  schism  was  at  an  end.  The  congregation, 
for  the  first  time  in  the  history  of  the  mission, 
overflowed  the  chapel  and  stood  crowding  under 
the  trees  between  its  porch  and  the  lotus-pond. 

The  deacon’s  voice,  as  he  read  the  service, 
came  clear  and  soft  in  the  still  Sabbath  evening 
across  the  small  piece  of  water.  When  they 
raised  the  hymn,  the  Old  Missionary  listened 
with  a rapt  look,  but  at  first  almost  in  awe 
at  the  unwonted  volume  of  sound,  and  clasped 
tighter  his  little  girl’s  hand.  Each  cadence  rolled 
slowly  forth  from  the  mixed  multitude  of  low- 
landers  and  hillmen,  to  that  air  in  which  pathos 
K 2 


132 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


mingles  so  tenderly  with  triumph.  As  they  came 
to  the  beautiful  lines,  ‘ Yet  nightly  pitch  my  moving 
tent  A day’s  march  nearer  home,’  the  old  man 
suddenly  sat  up  erect,  and  ejaculated,  ‘ Lord,  now 
lettest  Thou  Thy  servant  depart  in  peace,  according 
to  Thy  word.  For  mine  eyes  have  seen  Thy 
salvation.’  Then,  folding  his  little  daughter,  who 
was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  in  his  long  thin 
arms,  he  whispered,  ‘ My  darling,  my  darling!  ’ and 
pressed  her  close  to  his  breast.  There  was  silence 
for  a minute.  Presently  the  little  girl  gave  a 
frightened  cry.  The  Old  Missionary  was  dead. 

Next  evening  we  buried  him.  Amid  the  cease- 
less changes  of  Anglo-Indian  life  there  is  one  spot 
— only  one — that  is  always  quiet.  Let  a man  re- 
visit even  a large  Bengal  station  after  a few  years, 
and  which  of  the  familiar  faces  remain  ? He  finds 
new  civilians  in  the  courts,  a new  uniform  on  the 
parade  ground,  strange  voices  at  the  mess-table, 
new  assistants  in  the  indigo  factories.  The  ladies 
who  bowed  languidly  from  their  carriages  are 
bowing  languidly  elsewhere : as  for  the  groups 
of  children  who  played  round  the  band-stand, 


THE  GOING  DOWN  OF  THE  SUN  133 

one  or  two  tiny  graves  are  all  that  is  left  of  them 
m the  station.  The  Englishman  in  India  has  no 
home,  and  he  leaves  no  memory. 

In  a little  station  like  ours  the  grave-yard  was 
very  solitary.  Of  the  sleepers  beneath  the  tombs 
not  one  had  a friend  among  the  living.  Some 
of  them  had  fallen  with  sword  in  hand,  some 
had  been  cut  off  in  the  first  flush  of  youthful 
promise,  some  had  died  full  of  )^ears  and  honour. 
One  fate  awaited  all.  No  spring  flowers  were 
ever  left  on  their  far-off  graves,  no  tear  was  ever 
dropped,  no  prayer  ever  breathed,  beside  their 
resting-place.  At  the  beginning  of  each  cold 
season  the  magistrate  entered  the  walled  en- 
closure with  the  public  works  officer  to  see  what 
repairs  were  needful : at  the  end  of  the  cold  season 
he  inspected  it  again,  to  see  that  the  repairs  had 
been  carried  out.  During  the  rest  of  the  j^ear 
the  dead  lay  alone,  through  the  scorching  blaze 
of  summer  and  under  the  drenching  deluge  of 
the  rains,  alone,  unvisited,  forgotten. 

Yet  the  solitary  place  in  our  small  station  had 
a beauty  of  its  own.  In  its  centre  rose  an  aged 
tamarind-tree,  which  spread  out  its  great  arms 
K 3 


I34 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


and  clouds  of  feathery  foliage  wide  enough  to 
overshadow  all  the  graves.  The  oldest  sleeper 
in  that  sequestered  spot  was  a little  girl.  A judge 
of  the  last  century  lost  his  only  daughter,  and, 
in  the  absence  of  any  consecrated  plot  of  ground, 
buried  her  under  the  tamarind  at  the  foot  of  his 
garden.  On  its  lowest  arm  the  father  had  put 
up  a swing  for  his  child.  The  branch  yet  faintly 
showed  the  swollen  rings  where  the  ropes  cut 
into  the  once  tender  bark.  Beneath  might  be  read 
the  inscription  on  her  tomb : ‘ Arabella  Brooke, 
obiit  6 November,  1797.’ 

Soon  another  father  had  to  lay  his  child  under 
the  shade  of  the  tamarind-tree ; and  the  spot  was 
decently  walled  off  from  the  rest  of  the  garden. 
Less  than  seventy  years  added  about  thirty  Eng- 
lish tombstones  ; but  the  graves  of  little  children 
still  lay  thickest.  More  than  one  young  mother 
sleeps  there  with  her  baby  on  her  breast.  A 
headstone,  without  name  or  date,  to  a Lieutenant 
killed  while  leading  his  detachment  against  the 
hillmen,  had  been  set  up  by  hasty  comrades  who 
passed  on  before  it  was  ready  for  the  inscrip- 
tion. Beneath  another  lies  a youthful  Civilian 


THE  GOING  DOWN  OF  THE  SUN  135 

who  had  reached  his  first  station  in  India  only 
to  die. 

They  lay  so  close  to  us,  those  lonely  dead 
people,  and  yet  were  so  far  away  ! As  we  chatted 
evening  after  evening  in  our  long  chairs  on  the 
top  of  The  Mount,  after  our  swim  in  the  judge’s 
lake,  we  could  have  thrown  a pebble  among  the 
tombs.  Yet,  except  for  my  brief  official  inspec- 
tions to  see  to  the  repairs,  none  of  us  had  ever  set 
foot  within  those  high  walls.  One  feature  of  the 
place  spoke  plaintively  of  the  sense  of  exile  and 
longing  for  home : all  the  graves  looked  wistfully 
towards  the  West. 

Never  had  the  little  enclosure  witnessed  such 
a gathering  as  that  which  convoyed  the  Old  Mis- 
sionary to  his  resting-place.  The  wild  grief  of 
the  hill  people,  and  the  wailing  with  which  the 
lowland  women  rent  the  preceding  night,  had 
settled  down  into  a sense  of  loss  too  deep  for 
utterance.  The  bereaved  Israel  followed  their 
father  and  leader  in  silence,  broken  only  by  an 
occasional  low  sobbing,  to  his  grave.  The  re- 
pentant deacon  and  catechists  and  the  headmen 
of  the  hill  Christians  carried  the  coffin.  Ayliffe 


136 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


and  I,  with  the  little  girl  between  us,  came  next. 
By  a short  Will,  written  with  the  last  rays  of 
his  fading  eyesight,  her  father  had  appointed  us 
joint  guardians  of  his  child.  The  three  other 
English  officials  and  Father  Jerome  followed ; 
then  the  great  stricken  multitude. 

Nor  were  the  mourners  only  those  of  his  own 
people.  The  news  had  spread  with  Indian  swift- 
ness into  the  hills,  and  the  non-Christian  tribesmen 
hurried  in  under  their  chiefs,  forty  miles  without 
a pause  for  food  or  water,  to  do  honour  to  their 
White  Father  and  Friend.  The  last  time  that  the 
clans  marched  into  the  District  they  had  come 
with  weapons  in  their  hands  and  a line  of  blazing 
hamlets  on  their  track.  Crowds  of  Musalmans  of 
all  ranks,  from  the  senior  native  magistrate  and 
the  officiants  at  the  mosque  to  the  shopkeepers 
from  the  closed  bazaar,  lined  the  wayside  and 
salaamed  as  the  coffin  passed.  Further  off  a 
group  of  Hindus  and  pandits  of  high  caste  stood 
apart,  in  respectful  silence.  As  we  reached  the 
gate  of  the  enclosure,  Father  Jerome  withdrew 
from  the  procession  and  knelt  down  by  himself 
outside  the  wall. 


THE  GOING  DOWN  OF  THE  SUN  137 

The  little  girl  stood,  weeping  noiselessly,  between 
Ayliffe  and  myself  beside  the  open  grave.  One 
small  hand  trembled  in  mine,  the  other  clasped 
Ayliffe’s  left,  while  in  his  right  he  held  the  Prayer 
Book  from  which  he  read  the  burial  service.  As 
the  final  words  of  consolation  melted  into  silence, 
and  the  jungle-villagers  began  to  fill  up  the  grave, 
the  deacon  raised  in  Bengali  the  hymn  which  had 
been  so  suddenly  broken  off  the  previous  evening 
by  the  summons  of  death.  Again  the  song  of 
blended  tenderness  and  triumph  soared  aloft  from 
the  multitude  of  hill  people  and  men  of  the  plains 
— its  refrain  now  sounding  as  a psalm  of  assured 
victory — ‘ For  ever  with  the  Lord.’ 

When  it  ended,  Ayliffe  said  to  me  softly,  ‘ Come 
home  to  me  again.  The  differences  between  us 
are  over,  for  I leave  immediately  to  take  our  little 
ward  to  England.  He  would  have  wished  her  to 
be  with  us  both,  during  her  remaining  days 
here.’  The  last  act  of  the  Old  Missionary  had 
been  an  act  of  forgiveness  and  blessing : the  first 
influence  of  his  memory  was  an  influence  of  recon- 
ciliation and  peace. 

At  a sign  from  Ayliffe  the  crowd  quietly  dis- 


i38 


THE  OLD  MISSIONARY 


psrsed,  leaving  us  three  for  a few  minutes  beside 
the  newly-filled  grave.  When  at  length  we  turned 
slovvdy  away,  the  sun  was  sinking  behind  the 
distant  ranges,  with  two  isolated  flat-topped  hills 
standing  out  in  front  like  guardian  fortresses  on 
the  plain.  It  was  the  sunset-land  of  brief  splendour, 
towards  which  the  little  girl  had  so  often  strained 
her  eyes  on  the  wooded  height  in  the  judge’s 
garden,  when  she  wished  for  the  Shepherds’ 
perspective  glass  through  which  Pilgrim  looked 
from  the  Delectable  Mountains.  She  now  gazed 
through  her  tears  on  the  far-off  glory  for  a moment 
in  silence,  and  then  whispered,  ‘ At  last,  at  last 
I see  the  gates  of  the  Celestial  City.’ 


Revised  from  The  Co7itemftora.7'y  Review. 


Princeton  Theological  Seminary  Librar  es 


012  01 


72  651 


